


Baker Street: Part XVII

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [32]
Category: Dad's Army, Murder She Wrote, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Trek
Genre: 20th Century, 221B Baker Street, Alibis, Antisemitism, Attempted Murder, Bees, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Bullying, Caring, Cornwall, Disguise, Edwardian Period, Embarrassment, Emotions, England (Country), Enterprise, Environmentalism, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Forgery, Games, Gay Sex, Gloucestershire, Government Conspiracy, Harems, Infidelity, Inheritance, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Jumpers, Justice, Kissing, London, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monuments, Murder, Native American Character(s), Nobility, Northumberland, Photographs, Poisoning, Politics, Portugal - Freeform, Royalty, Size Difference, Social Justice, Sussex, Tattoos, The Royal Navy, Theft, Threats, Trains, United States, departure, essex, magna carta - Freeform, misrepresentation, norfolk, ropes, spirk, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1902-1903. The home run, and there is a very slight bump on the path to a deserved happy ending when a certain London doctor allows himself to get kissed by an attractive woman! Overly perceptive relatives, possibly perceptive insects, annoying environmental campaigners, shy South Saxons, embarrassed writers, sleeping beauties, a stolen medieval charter and the U.S.S. Enterprise are rounded off with a familial encounter with a man who can see the future (and the nearby beach). That cottage seems a long way away still, but it is moving slowly ever closer.
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherrinford Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: Elementary 366 [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallieDoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieDoodle/gifts), [Calzona220](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calzona220/gifts).



** 1902 **

**Interlude: The Bells**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Climb every mountaineer....._

**Case 336: Kiss And Tell**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John kisses a pretty girl – and Sherlock is not pleased!_

**Case 337: The Adventure Of The Mystery-Writer ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Jessica Fletcher worries that one of her murders might come real_

**Case 338: The Adventure Of Woodman's Lea**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A ghastly and unpleasant woman meets a bad end – but how?_

**Case 339: Holmes Of Arabia**  
by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire  
_Tantalus Holmes is found out – and brothers can be so annoying!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

** 1903 **

**Interlude: A Town Drive**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_John really wants to get his just desserts_

**Case 340: A Journey On The 'U.S.S. Enterprise'**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Captain Kirk's ship sees a joke go wrong – can Sherlock help?_

**Case 341: The Adventure Of The Illustrious Client**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A bee-sting for rheumatism – or possibly murder!_

**Interlude: Persuasion**  
by General Carlyon Holmes  
_Even the most feared man in the Army can be 'persuaded'_

**Case 342: The Adventure Of The War Games ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The dice are loaded as Sherlock helps an unconfident man_

**Case 343: The Adventure Of Greyminster Abbey**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A stolen charter might ruin a nobleman, unless Sherlock can help_

**Case 344: The Adventure Of Mr. Fairdale Hobbs**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A former co-tenant of 221B returns – with some large baggage!_

**Case 345: The Adventure Of The Sleeping Beauty ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Isadora Persano is worried about a lover who keeps falling asleep_

**Case 346: The Adventure Of Faerie Dell**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock again runs into his twin, and someone finds true love_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	2. Interlude: The Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Past desolation and future happiness.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

Although our house here was set a little way back from the beach it had a third storey where our bedroom was, from which you could stand on the balcony and look out onto the calm grey waters of the North Sea. Or at least I could stand; after what I had done to poor Vic last night he would not be standing any time soon, let alone climbing any of his beloved mountains. Going down the stairs would be beyond him for a while, too.

As my dear twin would say, I was the man!

Vic had been surprised and, I knew, disappointed that I had chosen to set up camp in one of the flattest parts of England, but being him he had swiftly adapted and enjoyed walking round the country lanes in and around Dunwich. It was odd to think that this had once been a great city before the terrible storms of the medieval period had torn away huge chunks of it and its increasingly dispirited citizens had abandoned it. Now there was only a small village and, of course, my place where people came to drop out of the rat race for a while, much as they had to the monasteries and nunneries of those far-off times.

Sherlock and John would be here before too long, paying me a final visit before they headed off to find their own special happiness in that cottage on the Downs the year after next. I knew that the doctor in particular still scarcely believed that such a wonderful ending would be his, and that he was sure that either something else would go wrong before he got there or something would drag Sherlock away once they had made it. True, they would have more adventures before and from 'Elementary', but nothing to threaten their well-earned happiness. That was theirs now, although when Sherlock found out about that women..... as Vic said when I surprised him, yikes!

I heard a moan from behind me, which meant that my monocled mountaineer was waking up and discovering that certain of his body parts had stopped talking to him. Still, better make absolutely sure that he was in no fit state to move. Climb every mountaineer......

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	3. Case 336: Kiss And Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Doctor John Watson gets kissed by an attractive girl – and a certain blue-eyed someone is Definitely Not Pleased!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case for which Sherlock refused a knighthood.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: This case occurred after one of those drawn-out matters that had required Sherlock's attentions on and off for a period of months and which had overlapped several other cases. For diplomatic reasons I cannot include it in the Sherlock canon but my friend had spared the blushes of an important (and, for once, innocent) government figure. That and this next case was why he was subsequently offered a knighthood, an offer that he firmly refused. Except... well, read on.

It was perhaps fortunate that this other matter apart, our next case after our return from the cottage happened so quickly, for I know all too well that I am minded to dwell on things and to over-analyse them to the point of destruction. I simply could not believe that the man I loved more than life itself was prepared to give up his career and retire with me to some little cottage in the middle of nowhere. It all seemed too good to be true – except that he had commissioned a local artist to draw the place and when I walked back into our rooms on our return, the picture was hanging over the fireplace, a permanent reminder of what was to come and one that I often looked at in those cold autumn days. And right there in the bottom right-hand corner the date of our departure, two years hence and counting. I resolved to redouble my efforts to protect him from any dangers in the long months that lay between us and the cottage.

As things turned out I might have done better to have focussed my efforts on protecting myself.

The only downside to our plans was that they would of necessity involve the tiresome Mr. Randall Holmes who Sherlock had grudgingly accepted back into his good graces following a fulsome (grovelling if palpably insincere) apology. My books about Sherlock were so popular that any hint that we were living quietly in a country cottage anywhere in England would have had my readers searching high and low for us. The lounge-lizard's offices would be needed to not only lay a false trail abroad when the time came for the move but to also provide us with false identities for our new lives in Sussex. I had no doubt that the villagers would soon know who we were (if they did not already after what we had done in the cottage; Sherlock had mentioned that he was having the doors and windows sound-proofed!), but I hoped that they could be trusted to keep that knowledge to themselves. If not, we were both armed and ready for any annoying journalists and there was plenty of room in that long back garden for a few graves!

I suppose that I should have expected the lounge-lizard to have demanded something in return for his efforts, and that being him it would lead to trouble. Yet it was a request that seemed so trivial at the time, I did not see the danger until it quite literally thrust itself upon me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Bearing in mind my plans to decamp to the countryside for good I felt obliged to offer my former employers at the Bloomsbury Surgery a little something extra before I went, to make up for my absence in the years to come. So when my publishers Brett, Burke & Hardwicke decided to publish a special hardback edition of my twenty most popular cases (drum roll – _with added illustrations AND revised notes!_ ) I proposed an auction of a limited number of signed copies to raise funds for the surgery. I had planned to restrict these works to just twenty and had said that I would write a personal dedication for each of the lucky bidders, but demand was far greater than either I or the publishers had anticipated and in the end we settled on two hundred and twenty-three books (numbered 1-221, 221A and 221B), to be sold at auction. The amount raised was staggering; incredibly the British Library asked if they might have 221B, which I found humbling in the extreme.

Mr. Randall Holmes surprised me by buying one himself. It turned out that he wanted it as a present for a Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin, the daughter of the French ambassador. Not for the reasons anyone who knew him might have thought; his wife Muriel was watching him like a hawk after the Devonshire _debacle_ which presumably was why he had requested that I deliver it to the lady myself. Thus it was that just over two weeks after our return from Sussex that I decamped to Woodmansterne in Surrey, not far from Smitham where we had assisted Mr. Lee and his Southern friends the Duke cousins.

The ambassador's daughter lived on the edge of village. I was sadly alone in my travels; Sherlock was attending a family function of some sort judging from the hang-dog expression on his face that morning, and that had been after five cups of coffee! He had been even more demanding in bed that morning with the result that my suburban train-ride had been damnably uncomfortable. Thank the Lord for the padded seats in first-class!

_(I would normally have gone second-class when travelling by myself but Sherlock had insisted that his pestilential brother pay for my ticket. So.)_

I had telegraphed ahead to say that I would be arriving at half-past ten in the morning and a few minutes before the appointed time my carriage drew up outside 'Croatoan'. I shook my head at the tactlessness of the French ambassador in naming his private house for the destruction of the first English settlement on mainland North America and knocked on the door, hoping that this was not some sort of omen.

It turned out to be that and more. About five seconds later there was the sound of a forcible expression – 'hah!' – coming from behind the door. Then it was pulled violently open by a pretty young lady in her early twenties, well-dressed but with a furious expression on her face. She glanced behind her to where a young buck was holding his face as if he had just been slapped, then I saw a knowing expression in her eyes that I did not like at all.

And then she kissed me! Very, very thoroughly!

Typically my first thought was a silent prayer of thanks that Sherlock was nowhere around to witness this. I would not call him jealous but only because an angry Sherlock was something best witnessed from the next galaxy. My second thought was still trying to form itself when the lady pulled away.

“ _Mon chér_ you are here at last!” she said, sounding relieved. “ _Allons!_ ”

She grabbed me and dragged me forcibly back to the cab whose driver I had asked to wait for a moment just in case. The fellow from the house who looked vaguely Hispanic and definitely annoyed hurried to the door after her.

“Evie!” he called out. “Please!”

She ignored him and for a small woman she was surprisingly strong. I found myself being manhandled – woman-handled – into the cab and she called to take us into the town, leaving the young buck clearly at a loss. As was I. I turned and looked at her.

“You must be _le Docteur_ Watson”, she said. “I am Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin. I believe that you have brought a book for me?”

“Uh, yes”, I managed incoherently. I reached into my bag and handed it to her. “I, uh, have. Mr. Randall Holmes said that you had yet to choose an inscription?”

“Let us have _déjeuner_ ”, she said gaily “and I will be sure to think of something.”

Right. Lunch. I could do that.

Probably.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Then she drags me to this place where the prices... they were outrageous! Not a word of apology either; just kidnapped me then and there!”

The amount of sympathy I was receiving from across the dinner table was frankly underwhelming. Sherlock chuckled.

“This most forward lady did not even explain her actions?” he said. “Why did you not just ask her?”

I glared at him.

“Oh really?” I snipped. “Excuse me madam, would you please pass me the sugar-bowl and while you are about it offer some reasons for kissing me on your doorstep then kidnapping me for lunch. I even had to pay for it!”

“With a lady young enough to be your daughter”, he smiled.

“I said almost young enough”, I grumbled. _“Almost!_ She might have been in her early thirties for all that I knew. Still, many people would say that I am an attractive man.”

He raised an eyebrow at that.

“But you enjoyed the kiss?” he asked a shade too innocently.

I could feel the sudden tension in the room. It was like that awful moment for a husband when his wife suddenly turns to him and asks, 'does this make my figure look too big?'. The only safe options are to a) lie, b) fake a heart-attack, c) effect a rapid change of subject, or d) pray for a sudden apocalypse.

I of course chose option e) – say something incredibly dumb.

“Of course”, I said. “She was quite pretty.”

He looked at me across the table and damnation, he actually growled! I shuddered at that look.

“Bedroom!” he snarled. “Now!”

Of course I was not to be pushed around in such a way. I was a manly man, not some good-wife who just opened their legs, laid back and thought of England every time her husband felt the Urge. I had standards for Heaven's sake!

I made it to the bedroom in less than ten seconds and was undressed and on the bed in little more than a minute. I had assumed that he was undressing in the main room, but when he entered he was still fully clothed. And the look on his face was positively terrifying!

He quickly got out the handcuffs and leather restraints that he had got some time back from LeStrade (that must have been an interesting conversation, I had thought at the time!), and made short work of tying my hands and feet to the four corners of the bed. I was already hard and torn between the fear at what he might be about to do to me and worse, the fear as to what he might not. He stood back and eyed his work contentedly.

“Good”, he smiled. “Now I am going out.”

“What?” I managed aghast. Surely he would not be so cruel?

“Clearly you need a lesson as to whose mate you are, John”, he said sharply. “I am going to spend at least two hours at the gym working up a sweat, then I am going to come home and mark you as mine.”

And he completed his work by first clipping on a cock-ring around my full erection, then rapidly working me open before inserting the vibrator in. 

“I do not think that I need to gag you as well”, he said thoughtfully. “The maids know not to come into our rooms while the red marker is on the main door. I shall see you presently. Good day, John.”

I whimpered but he ignored me and left, shutting the door behind him. I winced as the vibrator nudged my prostate while my cock swelled angrily at being denied release; the bastard had used the unmovable ring damn him. 

Lord but this was so hot!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I must have somehow fallen asleep – I did _not_ faint! – because the next thing I remember was a sweaty man clambering all over me, scenting every part of me that he could reach. I groaned pleasurably. 

“I hope that you have learned your lesson”, he said sternly. “I do not share, John. Not ever.”

“I had no choice!” I said defensively, not whining at all. “She jumped me, not the other way round.”

“I still need to establish that you are mine”, he said firmly. He must have finished scenting me and had got up to open our drawer full of toys. “It is time that I drove that message home.”

I perked up hoping that meant what I thought it meant. I was surprised when I saw that he had got my harness out and that there seemed more of it than I remembered.

“Huh?” I said incoherently.

He wrapped it around my back and tied it at the front and I saw that there was an extra strap of leather extending down to a metal cock-ring. The bad feeling I had when I saw that was only confirmed when he clipped it open and then closed it around my cock, then removed the first ring. This new one was movable and I knew that a determined push would enable me to come.

“That is exactly the idea”, he whispered in my ear. “I am going to scent you even more, John. Then we are going to put your clothes back on and go for a walk among the crowds in Regent's Park. You smelling of me and with only that loose ring holding you back from coming. And I will be doing everything in my power to make you come!”

I whimpered in horror. That was absolutely.... even hotter!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I came three times during our walk, to my utter mortification. It is safe to say that I never let a woman (attractive or not) get that close to me ever again. And when we returned to Baker Street Sherlock rewarded me with one almighty blow-job and in lieu of further apologies I accepted a long hot soak, as it did not involve having to stand up at all. It was a bit mean of him to leave my walking-stick outside the bathroom door afterwards, although to be fair I needed it.

Unfortunately my troubles with Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin were far from over.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was two days later and the night before had been a good night. A very good night; Sherlock had gone to town on me to make up for his behaviour the day before and I had (eventually) forgiven him. Although I had made him work me hard for that forgiveness. So even if I could not easily sit down, I felt great that morning.

I suppose that I should therefore have expected things to go wrong, and when Mr. Randall Holmes paid an unannounced call he proved as usual to be the bearer of bad news. I thought acidly that those ancient kings had had the right idea about shooting the messenger. And could a blue-eyed someone not shake their head at me like that?

“Only you, doctor!” our visitor grumbled, realizing just in time that he had inadvertently picked up Sherlock's coffee (highly inadvisable for those wishing to keep their appendages). “Now we have an international incident on our hands just because you let yourself get kissed by the wrong girl!”

I sipped my own coffee and wished that there was something stronger in it. Or something poisonous in his! I had several things in my doctor's bag....

“What are you talking about, Randall?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me again.

“Not only is that lady the French ambassador's daughter”, his brother snapped, “but the gentleman who was with her at the house is an attaché to the Spanish ambassador. Spain could be crucial if it enters the forthcoming war on Germany's side – and your doctor friend has just upset them!”

“I could hardly push her away”, I muttered. 

“The young buck, Señor Alvarez, thinks that she is seeing you”, Mr. Randall Holmes said.

“Why would he think that?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Because that was what she told him when she got back!” his brother said. “From what I can gather it is a lovers' tiff, but now he is sulking at the Spanish embassy and saying that it is all the doctor's fault!”

“How is it _my_ fault?” I protested. _“She_ kissed _me_ as I recall. And it was your damn book purchase that caused all this!”

“You apparently did not try to stop her either kissing or kidnapping you”, Sherlock said dryly. “Randall, if you even think about touching my bacon I shall introduce Muriel to Miss St. Leger's twenty-four hour tracking service for errant husbands.”

Our visitor looked in alarm at Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes at him. The pest sat back and pouted.

“Pouting does not work for John so it certainly will not work for you”, Sherlock said smartly. “Fortunately for him, he has does have other ways of winning me over.”

His brother scowled at him and I bit back a chuckle. Well, almost bit back. I thought about biting it back!

“I suppose that I shall have to play the knight-errant in this situation and ride to the rescue”, Sherlock said wryly.

“Which makes the doctor here the damsel in distress!” his brother grinned. 

“From handmaiden to damsel!” Sherlock shot back, looking far too knowingly at me.

I blushed fiercely. That had been only been on a couple of occasions, damnation!

He covertly mouthed the number 'three' at me. The room was suddenly very cold for some reason.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was writing up some notes later that day when Sherlock came in with a telegram. He looked worried.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This is getting serious”, he said. “Señor Alvarez has accused you of attempting to steal his fiancée. He challenges you to a duel next Friday.”

I laughed, only to realize that he was deadly serious.

“What, pistols at dawn?” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood. 

“As the recipient of the challenge you have the right to choose the weapons”, he said, unsmiling. “This is getting serious, John. Randall tells me that Señor Alvarez is very well thought of at the embassy. All this because you let that woman kiss you and take you to lunch.”

“That was not my fault”, I grumbled. “She surprised me.”

“For the whole hour of luncheon, presumably”, he said pointedly. “This needs some serious looking into. I would suggest that you restrict yourself to the house for now, and I will see what I can do.”

“He would not actually make me fight a duel?” I asked. I knew that in any sort of physical encounter with a younger man I would be lucky to come second.

“I rather fear that he would”, he said grimly. “I am going out. I will see you later.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I feel like a fool!” I grumbled.

It was nine days later and we were at some private club which Sherlock had chosen for the duel. My opponent was due in any moment. I scratched at the fake leg cast that Peter had placed on me last week – Sherlock had insisted that it had to look worn, the bastard! – and sighed. My baronet friend himself was with us as a registered doctor, which apparently was allowed.

“They are here”, Sherlock said, looking out of the large window. “Let us do this.”

“It would be fine if I knew what we were going to do”, I grumbled. 

“If it is any consolation, you have made Randall's job very difficult”, he smiled. “The British government is up in arms over the case; they fear that should you win the duel then the Spanish government will be offended. If you lose, the British government will be offended!”

“I am hardly going to win anything like this”, I sighed.

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a group of five people. I recognized Señor Alvarez and the harridan Mademoiselle Duguesclin, as well as (unfortunately) Mr. Randall Holmes. The elder of the other two I assumed from the resemblance – correctly as it turned out – to be Señor Alvarez's father. He looked at me with lofty disapproval, and when he spoke to Sherlock his English was flawless.

“Mr. Holmes”, he said, bowing. “Thank you for your communications. As per your entrant's choice, my son has appointed his friend Señor Felipe Vasquez as his champion, since both men must of necessity choose such.”

I gulped. The young buck was bronzed and toned, barely half my age and looked as he could win a fight without breaking a sweat.

“A regrettable incident”, Sherlock smiled. “Without wishing to go into details, the doctor is in a relationship with someone who did not take kindly to his kissing a lady in that manner. His partner was, ahem, somewhat violent in their reaction. Fortunately the ribs were only bruised, not broken like the leg, and I have endeavoured to prevent them from taking any action against either your son or Mademoiselle Duguesclin. This way is so much more civilized, I am sure you would agree.”

“Indeed”, the old man said. “Your letter did not place any restrictions on my son's choice and fortunately Señor Vasquez is one of the top pugilists in our country. I hope that that is not a problem?”

_Pugilists? As in boxers? My day was getting even worse!_

“In these difficult circumstances one must have rules”, Sherlock agreed. “Shall we begin?”

“I do not see the doctor's champion?” the old man said looking around the room. Sherlock smiled.

“As the doctor's colleague, I shall be representing him.”

Mr. Randall Holmes had moved surreptitiously round to stand behind where I was seated, and had it not been for his restraining hand on my shoulder I would have yelled out an objection. Sherlock was forty-eight years old, almost double the age of his opponent. I swallowed but the lounge-lizard applied the slightest of pressures in his grip and I bit back my objection. At least until Sherlock's next words.

“The terms are these”, he said, donning his coat and looking at the pair of boxing-gloves like he had never seen such before. “At the first fall or knee to the ground, the bout is over. The loser must pay for a quarter-page advertisement in the 'Times' publicly apologizing to the winner. The inside front page, in tomorrow's edition.”

“That seems fair”, the old man said, clearly confident of victory. “Let us begin.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I shook myself. The bout had been going for five minutes and I was totally mesmerized. 

At the start Señor Vasquez had advanced confidently forwards, clearly thinking to end things as quickly as possible. Yet every time he threw a punch Sherlock parried his blow, apparently without effort. The younger man's moves ran the gamut from confident through angry to desperate as he wasted his energy trying to get a strike in. Sherlock looked almost bored as he conserved his own energy, his face an essay in calm disinterest. I held my breath not daring to make a noise in case I distracted him, although he was so focussed that I doubted he would have heard me anyway. Señor Alvarez called encouragement to his friend during the brief pauses in the battle but to no avail. Mademoiselle Duguesclin looked supremely bored by it all, bearing in mind the pestilential woman had been the cause of this mess.

Suddenly one particularly desperate strike caused Señor Vasquez to overbalance slightly, and totally against what had happened before Sherlock suddenly shot forward a right hook which connected with his opponent's jaw with a sickening crunch. The man looked briefly surprised before he reeled back and fell to the ground, moaning softly. Peter immediately rushed over to him, followed closely by young Mr. Alvarez. 

“I yield!” Señor Vasquez gasped from his prone position. 

Sherlock stood over him and for a moment I thought that he was going to strike the man when he was down. He looked absolutely furious!

“Mr. Holmes!” the older Señor Alvarez called out. “Enough! You have the victory. We will do as you asked.”

Sherlock nodded, then slowly backed away from his opponent before crossing to where I was sitting. He bowed to me and I caught a half-smile creasing his mouth. 

No, I did _not_ blush. The room was just hot all of a sudden.

“In victory, magnanimity”, Sherlock said with another of his irritatingly knowing smiles. “If Señor Alvarez will make a donation to the Baker Street Orphanage of the same amount that the advertisement would have cost, I am sure that Doctor Watson would be prepared to accept that.”

The two Spanish gentlemen both looked relieved when I nodded my acceptance, although I noticed that Mademoiselle Duguesclin did not. And now she was eyeing up the prone Señor Vasquez and his toned chest rather thoughtfully. While young Señor Alvarez helped Peter tend to his defeated friend, I was grateful that the former's father escorted the brazen hussy from the room. We were well rid of her.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“So”, I said once we were headed back to Baker Street. “Boxing, hmm?”

He nodded. Clearly he did not intend to make things easy.

“You never mentioned that”, I said, feeling a little annoyed at being kept in the dark. “I knew you were skilled in some of the eastern fighting skills but not that.”

“Father insisted that all his sons learn both pugilism and fencing”, he said. “The first to defend ourselves if needed and the second for the discipline it requires. The only one who failed to see them both through was Torver, predictably enough, even after Anna beat him up that one time. I liked both, and took up the option of an advanced course for each.”

“Of course”, I said. “Poor Señor Vasquez. He must have thought someone twice his age would be a pushover.”

“Probably almost as much as someone old enough to be a certain Frenchwoman's father”, he quipped.

“Hey!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I read the small article in disbelief then read it again to make sure that I was not dreaming. Sherlock, the bastard, had insisted that I continue to wear the cast for a few weeks 'just in case' and the damn thing itched like crazy. It also made sleeping difficult as well. Not that I had got much sleep; Sherlock had been even more possessive than usual since the case and my body bore the marks of his constant attentions.

Proudly, I might add.

“Is something wrong?” my friend asked from where he was busy wrecking my filing system in his search for the record of some criminal or other. 

“Listen to this”, I said. “'Scandal at 'Croatoan'. Monsieur Louis Duguesclin the French ambassador has suffered the singular misfortune of having his only daughter Evadne elope, the lady having vanished from the house last night. It is believed that she is headed back to her own country – and that she is not travelling alone'.”

“That does not surprise me”, Sherlock said. “She did both kiss and kidnap you, remember?”

I scowled at him for that.

“That is not the most surprising part”, I said. “Remember Señor Vasquez at the duel? It is he whom she has gone with, not her fiancé Señor Alvarez.”

“Indeed”, he said, seemingly unperturbed. I looked across at him.

“This does not surprise you?” I asked.

“I am afraid that Mademoiselle Duguesclin struck me as a person who does not care how she gets what she wants out of life”, he said. “Her abuse of your untimely visit to the house demonstrated that at the start of this whole sorry affair. She must be back in France by now; her family have a house in Soissons not far from Paris so she is doubtless headed there.”

We were interrupted at that moment by Mrs. Rockland's announcement of a visitor. It turned out to be none other than Señor Alvarez's father, who slumped heavily into the fireside chair.

“This is a disaster”, he said gloomily. “We may end up with – how do you English say it? – a shotgun wedding. Poor Martin is utterly broken and keeping to his room. Mr. Holmes, I know it is probably foolish of me to expect your assistance after what has happened, but I need your help!”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.

“I can help you a little”, he said, “mainly by telling you that all things are not what they seem.”

Our visitor looked puzzled.

“I rather admired your son's friend Señor Vasquez”, Sherlock said, “which was why I spared him any serious injury in our little _contretemps_. He is truly a good friend to your son, and good men are hard to find in any walk of life. A man of the world, he understood all too well the fickle nature of Mademoiselle Duguesclin and was prepared to put himself on the line to prove that. With your son's connivance he wooed the lady and, sad to say after precious little effort, persuaded her to elope with him, thus proving just how faithless she really was.”

He hesitated before adding, “although kissing middle-aged gentlemen on the doorstep then subsequently kidnapping them _for half a day_ may in all fairness have been considered something of a clue!”

I blushed fiercely. That was just mean!

“I spoke with Señor Vasquez after the bout”, Sherlock said, “and he confided his fears in me. I helped him with some of the arrangements, one of which was that to avoid detection he and the lady should cross separately to the Continent. In reality he placed her on the ferry and is now on his way back to London where, I hope, he will still be welcome at your house.”

Our guest shook his head in bewilderment.

“Of course he will be!” he said. “Poor Martin. Still, better that he is detached from that terrible woman before things had gone any further.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “Perhaps one day he can find someone who loves him truly, rather than a fly-by-night character such as Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin.”

I blinked as a sudden memory came back to me. _Oh...._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“He told you”, I said once our visitor was gone. “I remember now, how the boy rushed over to check that his friend was all right afterwards.”

“Hardly a boy”, Sherlock smiled. “He is twenty-six years old and actually a year older than Señor Vasquez, or Philip as he prefers to be called by his friends. My opponent has known him since they were boys together but only recently did he find that those feelings were returned. The union with Mademoiselle Duguesclin was very much a political match and the subsequent outrage and challenge was prompted by his father. No, those two may now have a chance of happiness together. We can but hope that they are allowed to take it.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was with almost predictable bad timing that, the week after this case was concluded, Mr. Randall Holmes told us that the government wished to honour Sherlock with a knighthood for once again extracting the best possible outcome from a seemingly unwinnable situation. It did not surprise me that he refused, stating that he had no time for baubles and that he wished merely to get on with his last two years of work undisturbed. Although his comment about me making a good Lady were quite uncalled for! Even if I did get a new pair of silk panties out of him.

Well they were crimson with white lace and..... stop it!

Twenty-three months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	4. Case 337: The Adventure Of The Mystery-Writer ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. One of Sherlock's fearsome mother's fellow crim..... writers is worried that someone seems to be using one of her plots to commit a crime. But how to prove it – preferably before it happens?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There were few things in this world that truly terrified me, except of course the prospect of somehow losing my beloved John. However, the arrival of that telegram on the day that my love had had his cast removed following the Woodmansterne case, that was definitely one of them.

“What is it?” he asked, clearly concerned at my sudden silence.

“One of Mother's writer friends wishes to consult me about something”, I said, frowning at the vagueness of my mother's request. 

John visibly shuddered.

“One of her fellow criminals?” he asked.

I scowled at him for that. Just because Mother's Coven – I meant her Writing Circle; damnation if my love did not have me doing it now! – produced the sort of works that made grown men cry.... 

All right, he had a point.

“She asks if the lady might wait on us this afternoon”, I said. “Her name is Mrs. Jessica Fletcher.”

John was nothing like as good as me when it came to concealing his emotions. He went red and tried to hide behind his newspaper.

“Do you know this lady?” I asked warily. After Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin I was somewhat wary of any female getting even remotely close to my man. There may or may not have been some possessive growling from someone when we had gone out in recent days, and the growler had possibly not been of the medical persuasion.

He flushed even redder before answering.

“She wrote 'Death Calls At Midnight', he said, not looking at me. “A Mrs. Lansbury Mystery.”

I bit back a smile. That book had to be one of the most outrageous pieces of utter hogwash ever, and John had been mortified when I had caught him reading it one time. However, having read it myself I had to admire the skill of the authoress; it was one of those strange stories that was so incredibly bad, one kept reading it in amazement to see what impossible plot twist would happen next since predicting where the story was going was beyond even me! One newspaper critic had described it as 'Mr. Holmes's adventures if Doctor Watson had been on drugs, twice over', which had been cruel but accurate. I would have teased my love about his literary tastes but he had been so embarrassed that he had tried to get out of it with some hot distraction sex, so I may have forgotten to follow it up. 

For some time.

“I wonder what this lady wants”, I mused, dwelling on some happy memories. “Muriel is a member of the Cov..... the Writing Circle now though, and she expects her dear husband to listen to all her work and those of her fellow writers. Randall says that he can no longer have guests round to the house as they all refuse his invitations.”

“Because they value their sanity!” John muttered. 

I scowled at him. He really was terrible, especially when he knew that he was right.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mrs. Jessica Fletcher arrived to Baker Street at two o' clock as promised. She was a smartly-attired lady of middle age, red-headed and intelligent-looking. I knew from some inquiries that her family hailed from near Mallow, the same town that my mother had come from, and although they had not known each other back there, that had secured their friendship in London.

“I am sorry to be bothering you gentlemen”, she said apologetically, “but I am afraid that someone will be ruined if they are not stopped.”

“Let us start at the beginning”, I said patiently, not failing to notice that she was giving me the sort of look that had someone pouting from his seat at the table. “Who are 'they', to start with?”

She took a deep breath but somehow managed a simper at the same time. Impressive.

“Have either of you read my book, 'Curse Of The Calling-Card'?” she asked.

I looked across expectantly at John, who blushed but nodded. Our guest looked at him.

“What did you think of it?” she asked.

I could see my friend struggling to find something polite to say. It was rather amusing but I think that I did not smirk at his discomfiture. 

I did not smirk much.

“It was.... different”, John managed eventually.

“It was utter tripe!” she said cheerfully. “But like you doctor, I have to give the public what they want, not necessarily what makes sense. They have your stories for thrills, excitement and derring-do, while they have mine for a pleasant read that makes them feel superior to someone who could write such complete rubbish.”

My opinion of our guest rose markedly. She seemed very astute.

“The thing is”, she said, “I always write what you might call a 'proper' story first. Solid plot-lines, sensible characters, and crimes that work. Then I pretty much turn it inside out, because that is what actually sells. Except that....”

She paused and thought for a moment.

“My husband John and I lived in Ireland for many years before we came to England”, she said. “Recently we came into an inheritance from an uncle of his who had emigrated, a house in a small place called Cabot Cove in Maine, up in the north-eastern corner of the United States. The trouble is, we have to live in the house to inherit it; that was one of the conditions otherwise it goes to someone else. Fortunately I can write anywhere and he has found a banking job in a place called Portland which is not too far from our new house. We are emigrating next month, but I think that the crime I am concerned about will be committed before then.”

“Please tell us what makes you think that”, I said.

“As I said, I do sensible plots before they are 'converted' into what sells”, she said. The 'Calling-Card' story was originally quite sensible, and went like this. A politician wants to destroy a rival. He knows through a relation of his in the police service that there is shortly to be a raid at a brothel, so he hires someone to visit it and drop two of his rival's cards there. When the raid happens his rival's reputation will be destroyed.”

“It all sounds straightforward so far”, I said, thinking that it most definitely did not.

“The twist is that the fellow doing the plotting is not sure that it will work”, she went on. “So he targets a neighbour that he does not like first, and makes some fake calling-cards for him. He takes them round to the neighbour's wife and tells her that he found them at a railway-station some distance away; he knows that she will reason that this station is not on his way to anywhere that he should be visiting, and furthermore that as the cards are still pristine he must have lost them quite recently. She makes inquiries and finds that he has been visiting a brothel, which pretty much ends the marriage.”

I thought wryly that if this was the plot _before_ it got 'convoluted' then I would actually like to read the finished product. There was definitely method in our visitor's apparent madness.

“Three of John's friends came round when I was out last week”, she said, “and when I came back I was surprised to find that someone had read my base script. It cannot have been John because he once picked up something that your dear mother wrote, Mr. Holmes – I believe that it was 'Knight Rider', the one about the medieval knights who, ahem, kept a harem of burly squires – and he has refused to go anywhere near anything like it since.”

 _Poor Mr. Fletcher_ , I thought. _Curiosity nearly did kill the husband!_

“Do you have any idea as to which of the three gentlemen callers may have read your work?” I asked.

“I think that it may well have been Mr. Lucas”, she said. “He is of the nosy sort to go poking around other people's houses, while the others are not. The fellow has no imagination whatsoever, but I know that his wife Caroline likes my writings and he did ask John if I was writing anything new. And I also know that one of her friends, Mrs. Wright, separated from her husband recently after she found out that he had been seeing someone else.”

“This sounds most intriguing”, I said. “We shall definitely take this case.”

She smiled at us both.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I contacted Miss St. Leger to institute some inquiries into the Lucases and sent a message to my mother to let her know that I was taking her friend's case. She responded by offering to let me read her latest crim.... damn John, her latest work, but I quickly sent back that what with this and other cases I had _far_ too much on my hands just now. Some hazel-eyed bastard had sniggered at that, so I had used said hands to stop that sort of attitude in its tracks.

“You!” John gasped, “are a complete sexual pervert!”

“Are you complaining?” I asked innocently. He was lying wrecked on our bed, striving to recover from both the prolonged hand-job that I had given him and the pleasurer now doing things to his insides that were way beyond pleasurable. 

He just gasped.

“Men in their fifties”, I sighed. “The stamina is one of the first things to go.”

“You are only two years behind me!” he muttered mulishly.

“Two and a half”, I smiled. “But then us men in our _forties_ still have it. So, soon, will you!”

He moaned as I eased the pleasurer around inside of him and began working him towards his next orgasm. He did not object, though.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The small article on an inside page in the 'Times' two days later made pleasant reading, and I was sure that Mrs. Fletcher would take note of it. Sure enough she arrived that afternoon.

“How did you manage it?” she asked once she had sat down.

“I had to find the target first”, I said. “You were correct about Mrs. Lucas, and ironically her quarry was her own husband who gave her the idea from reading your story. She wished to decamp with a rich foreign man – I will not say gentleman – to France, and had determined to socially ruin her spouse in the hope that he would grant her a generous settlement. Her brother works as a policeman and through him she had learned of a raid on a brothel in her area, so she took some of her husband's calling-cards and gave them to him so that one of his colleagues could 'find' them during the raid. She would then propose a settlement that her beleaguered husband would likely feel compelled to accept, given his weakened position.”

“I feared as much”, she sighed.

“I circumvented her scheme by using my own police friends to launch a raid on a molly-house owned by a friend of mine”, I said, “in which they found her own calling-cards. This was conveyed to her and, rather amusingly, the Gallic lover who had sworn that he would stand by her through thick and thin promptly decided that this was a shade too thin and returned to France before she could contact him. She is now minus one husband as well, although he is from what I hear a decent enough fellow to make her a small settlement despite her actions.”

“That is a great relief”, she said. “One always fears when one writes that people will abuse what they learn but alas! there is no way to stop people being people, and there likely never will be.”

“How did you get into writing in the first place, may I ask?” John said.

For some reason that question seemed to embarrass our guest somewhat.

“You do not have to answer if you do not want”, I said, wondering what was so terrible about that simple question. She sighed.

“I suppose that as you have been so helpful, then it is only fair to tell you”, she said. “Especially as, in a way, it involves both of you. Doctor, do you remember your first published work, the 'Gloria Scott'?” 

“Of course”, John said. “No-one ever forgets their first work.”

She blushed again.

“I rather wish that I could forget mine!” she sighed. “You see, there was this competition in Ireland not long after that story was published. It offered what I thought a huge reward if we could 'tell the same story better', in their words. So I wrote a piece and submitted it, never thinking that it would win. Let alone that they would dare to publish it!”

We both stared at her, then John gulped and out his hand over his mouth.

“Oh my Lord”!” he exclaimed. _”You_ wrote 'Cockswain'?”

I stared at the lady in astonishment. Luke had sent me that work during John's time in Egypt and I had forwarded it to him knowing how much he would both enjoy and be mortified by it. It had been a version of our first adventure together, the 'Gloria Scott' case, in which we were a pair of complete sex maniacs who never passed up a chance to as Mrs. Rockland would have put it 'do the horizontal tango'. This lady had written _that?_

Mrs. Fletcher sighed.

“It seemed so obvious”, she said. “Your dear mother and her friends Mr. Holmes, they were all sure.... well, they were just sure. Of course none of your stories ever mention that sort of thing, but..... we just knew.”

It was a competition to see which between John and I was the redder. Mrs. Fletcher smiled.

“Thank you kindly for all you have done, gentlemen”, she smiled as she stood to leave. “Do not forget to slide the red card across the door after I am gone.”

And with that she left. We both drew a huge sigh of relief!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Yes, we dug out 'Cockswain' later. We might be twenty years older but we could still do all the things that, apparently, everyone thought that we had been doing. Even if we both needed a long lie-down afterwards.

Actually only John did. I was fine, but I knew that that would have annoyed him if I was not as broken as him so I pretended. Because I loved him.

Twenty-two and a half months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	5. Case 338: The Adventure Of Woodman's Lea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. An unusual murder as the list of potential suspects who had been crossed by the victim was.... rather long. Not forgetting the possible involvement of the local Red Indian!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I have often mentioned the continuing and seemingly relentless expansion of the Great Wen, but like all things that advance had not been without the occasional check. When Great Eastern Railway had built a branch-line to connect Chingford in Essex to the railway network, the station had been placed some little way south of the town centre and anyone capable of looking at a map could see that the company hoped to encourage development in the area and to then cut across Epping Forest to their Ongar branch and bring in even more people to the capital. Those ambitions had however been royally thwarted when Queen Victoria had visited the area in 1882 and had declared the formerly royal forest open to all, which had slammed the brake on development as the government now designated it somewhere that should be for the relaxation of Londoners and so not to be built on. It was good to see that even governments can get things right occasionally (see under pigs flying, blue moons, _et cetera)_.

It was the sequel some two decades later to these political machinations which led to a killing that was, in many ways, quite understandable. Not long after our two cases with Mr. Legant and Tommy (whom we had come across again in Regent's Park recently, the latter supporting the former who despite only being twenty-five was going to need a bath-chair at this rate!) to a further Red Indian adventure where the list of potential suspects was.... long.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had thought that Sherlock had taken my being kissed by an attractive young lady relatively well (all right, apart from that tying me to the bed naked thing which I had sort of enjoyed!) but after our recent mystery-writer case he had told me that he was trying to restrain his jealousy and anger at what had happened. I, in one of those moments which certain parts of my anatomy would most definitely come to regret, had told him to hold nothing back.

No gentleman in his fifties should be subjected to two weeks of near-constant sex! I would have to get a replacement for my new and luxurious sheer panties which Sherlock had had mounted, making three such 'trophies'. And hopefully only one shop in London where I would never dare show my face!

 _(Some horny bastard muttered that it was not my_ face _that they would likely recognize! Harrumph!)._

It was well that I had such a happy (if hazy) set of memories to comfort me because this late October day I was feeling far from happy. I fully understood and to some extent supported those people who wished to preserve the green areas in and around our capital, which made it very different from inferior cities both here and abroad. I had not thought that anything could make me think ill of such campaigners. But Madam ( _not_ Miss!) Sophia-Justina Worrea was it seemed determined to achieve just that. I could see from the deepening line on my friend's forehead that even Sherlock's considerable patience was fast running out.

This middle-aged harridan had arrived in a set of mechanic's overalls of all things, and while someone like Miss St. Leger could carry off something so daring, on Madam Worrea it just looked as if she was trying (and failing) to make a Statement. Let alone her voice – it was the human equivalent of a nail against a blackboard! I looked longingly at the whisky decanter on the sideboard; I could perhaps pick it up and then 'accidentally' trip and hit her over the head with it..... no, that would be wrong. It was a nice decanter.

“Madam Worrea!” Sherlock said in a far sharper tone than he normally used on even the most difficult of our clients. “This is getting us nowhere. I am a busy man and so far you have been here twenty-six minutes,” – he pulled out his watch – “forty-one seconds and counting, and have yet to actually say precisely what it is that you want.”

 _Her lips sealing together_ , I thought dryly, _preferably with industrial-strength glue!_ For once I did not get a disapproving look from 'someone', the absence of which said rather a lot.

The female tossed her head back and looked at us disdainfully. She might have been pretty if she had not had a permanent sneer on her face, as if she were having to cope with Someone Far Beneath Her. I reminded myself that despite the safety-catch our large window would probably still open wide enough to push a body through it. I had always wondered.

“I wish you to stop the railway!” she said, in the sort of voice that stated quite clearly that she thought we were the idiots, not her.

“You wish us to stop the railway from doing what, exactly?” Sherlock asked. I could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped his chair and winced. That was not a good sign. I would be sending down for coffee shortly, I was sure. And quite probably using a cushion for the next few days. 

_With any luck!_

“From building the Lea Extension Line, of course”, she said. “Really, Men these days! You are all _quite_ useless!”

Sherlock stared menacingly at her and rose slowly to his feet. Even on her far too self-satisfied face a look of anxiety belatedly began to appear.

“I am a gentleman”, my friend growled, “and because of that fact I am going to refrain from bodily ejecting you from these premises. But I suggest most strongly that you take you and your attitude somewhere else, preferably within the next sixty seconds before I throw you out of the door!”

She paled.

“You would not dare!” she snapped rising to her feet.

“Or the window!” he all but yelled. “Go! Away!”

It finally seemed to dawn on our visitor that rudeness and bad manners had for some inexplicable reason not served to win her Sherlock's help, and with a final huff she flounced from the room. He strode across and locked the door after her.

“In the name of all that is holy how has someone not strangled that woman?” he asked. “She was rude, vulgar, opinionated, uninformative, arrogant....”

I was already at his side, pulling him gently into an embrace and holding him as he seethed. 

“You are upset”, I said calmingly. “Rightly so. She really was terrible.”

“I lost my temper, though”, he said ruefully, looking down at the floor and blushing. “I do not think that I have ever done that with a client.”

There was a pained silence. He looked up at me.

“Twice before”, I said. “Both times deserved, although neither was as bad as that harridan. How she got all the way here from Essex without someone dispatching her into the next world if only to get some peace and quiet, the Good Lord alone knows.”

I was to remember those fateful words all too soon.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following morning, I woke feeling gloriously sated. To help take Sherlock's mind off our unpleasant guest I had suggested some role-play and in particular my wearing the slave-girl outfit which I loved (except, perhaps, for that awful occasion when I nearly left the house with the collar still showing had not a sniggering Mrs. Rockland pointed it out to me; she really had not needed to roll around in the doorway like that, gun collection or no gun collection). My friend was not there but I assumed that he was probably off in search of his caffeine fix as per usual.

As if thinking of the scruffy little genius could cause him to appear he re-entered the room that very moment, bearing the predictable coffee-cup (his fourth from his fairly coherent look). And an unexpected frown.

“What is wrong?” I asked, worried. He looked at me strangely.

“There has been a murder overnight in Essex”, he said slowly. “A woman's body was found at a place called Woodman's Lea, on the border between Middlesex and Essex.”

I worried at his reaction, This _was_ London after all, or at least adjoining parts thereof. There had to be something else. 

He looked at me and nodded.

“The dead woman has been identified as a Miss Sophia-Justina Worrea from the nearby town of Chingford”, he said. “But that is not the most remarkable thing about the whole affair. They are questioning a local man over the attack.”

“Well that is good”, I said warily. “Does the paper name him?”

“No”, he said. “But they say that he is, and I quote, a 'local Red Indian'.”

I stared at him in amazement.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

My initial fear in this case was that Tommy, the friend and tormentor of Mr. Clarence Legant, was the fellow involved in this case but fortunately Sherlock was able to clear that possibility within hours when he found that the two had gone to Salisbury for a mixture of business and pleasure. Although as Mr. Legant would tell us when what was left of him called in on their return a few days later, he did not remember much of the pleasure. Or much of the trip for that matter. After they were gone Sherlock wondered aloud if anyone could have smirked as much as our Red Indian friend, then scowled mightily as I had a sudden coughing fit.

That afternoon we were visited by another exhausted-looking fellow, this time our friend Inspector Baldur. His wife had just given birth to their ninth child, a boy called Forseti (little wonder the city kept expanding!) and he looked utterly wrecked. Sherlock asked him if he did not mind waiting while he sent a boy with an urgent telegram which I thought was odd, but he soon returned.

“I am worried about this Woodman's Lea murder”, our friend said, failing to suppress a yawn by some distance. “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that there is likely a police element to it.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked. “We have only seen the newspaper reports of the matter, and we know how unreliable they can be.”

“I read them”, our visitor said. “They did not directly mention what concerns me. You see sirs, the body was found on a small island in the River Lea in the middle of the wood. The island is astride the border between the constabularies and the counties of Essex and Middlesex, and the body was found across that border.”

I did not see his point, but of course Sherlock did. He glanced at his watch for some reason.

“Ah”, he said. “You believe that this implies insider knowledge as rivalry between the constabularies – and we know that it is bad enough between the different 'patches' in just one of them – might well impede the investigation.”

“I do”, the fellow yawned again visibly slumping in his chair. “Sorry sirs, I....”

He tried to sit up in his seat but his body was apparently against him. Within moments the poor fellow was snoring gently.

“If he will keep adding to the city's population”, Sherlock smiled fondly. “I am sure that his dear wife at least is in a better state being most sensibly still in hospital.”

He picked up his book and proceeded to read it. It was a little odd sat there with a London inspector slumped in our famous fireside chair but I quietly fetched my writings and set to work.

I had managed about two pages when there was a soft knock at the door – there had been no warning bell, which I thought odd – and Mrs. Rockland appeared with a young man and a young woman. He was a doctor of some sort from his bag while she definitely had the bearing of a nurse. Sherlock smiled at them in greeting, put down his book and crossed to shake our tall friend awake. He looked around confusedly then flushed bright red.

“Do not worry”, Sherlock said gently. “These people are Doctor Meredith and Nurse Pascoe. They run a company called 'First Month'.”

The inspector stared blearily at him, still woozy from his unexpected nap.

“Sir?”

“Their job is to help couples through the first month of a new baby being home by organizing everything for you”, Sherlock told him. “I took the liberty of arranging an extra month off for you so they will be taking you home and looking after you all.”

The look of gratitude and happiness on our friend's face was almost too much to bear. He stumbled to his feet and shook Sherlock's hand. 

“Thank you, sir”, he sniffed, clearly close to tears. “Just.... thank you!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I think that we should investigate this murder at Woodman's Lea”, Sherlock said, once the inspector and his new helpers had left. “I do not want our friend to have any worries on top of what he already has to cope with. His deputy Sergeant Mills has promised me that he will inform him as and when his current cases are wrapped up but we shall solve this one for him as well.”

I thought to myself how lucky I was to have such a wonderful friend who would do that for someone. Sherlock would have had to call in several favours to get a whole month off for the new father, let alone the expense of that company. He smiled at me as he pulled on his coat.

“You can thank me on our friend's behalf tonight!” he promised.

And now I was going to be hard all the way to bloody Chingford! Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Chingford was where the famous Abernetty Affair had come to its surprising conclusion (coincidentally we had had a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Lysander Wilson with their new son Alexander only last month). Sergeant Mills had advised that we direct ourselves to Constable Lake in the Essex town as he would be more receptive to our involvement than his Middlesex counterpart (or 'that prancing pony Preston' as he had called him). Gilbert Lake turned out to be yet another depressingly young fellow, blond, athletic and.... young.

“It's my opinion”, he told us, “that this has something to do with those plans for reservoirs in the area.”

“The newspapers did not mention those”, Sherlock said. The policeman scratched his short thatch.

“Officially the plans have been what they call 'suspended'”, he said, “so perhaps they did not think it relevant. But with London keeping growing the way it is they are going to need water for all those people from somewhere and I suppose here is as likely as anywhere else. Thing is they have to build the reservoirs on the low ground and that would almost cut us off completely. The only way through to Hertfordshire would be through Woodman's Lea, across the ridge that is cut in two by the river just where it bends.”

“So if the Great Eastern Railway wishes to build to their line in Hertfordshire then it has to be through the greenwood”, Sherlock mused. “What do you know about the victim, Madam Worrea?”

Judging from the pained expression on the young fellow's face he had indeed met the harridan.

“My dear mother would clip my ear if she caught me speaking ill of the dead, sirs”, he said, looking around the room presumably in case said parent should suddenly materialize from out of the aether (I could empathize; my own late mother had had that trick off to a tee). “May the Good Lord forgive me for saying it sir, but I cannot understand how she was not done in _years_ ago! Never mind drawing up a list of suspects; we should just list everyone who ever met her!”

I suppressed a smile.

“Tell us about your 'local Red Indian'”, Sherlock said.

“You mean Mr. Arthur Smith”, he grinned. “He's the opposite side of the coin. Lives in a wigwam thingy on the corner of Lord Holybourne's estate right where it meets the corner of Woodman's Lea. He acts pretty much as custodian of the place, communing with his spirits and what-not out there.”

“Does Lord Holybourne not mind?” I wondered. The policeman shook his head.

“Not our Holy Harry”, he grinned. “I suppose that would be your next question, sirs, namely what the hell is a Red Indian doing in this neck of the woods?”

“We had wondered”, Sherlock smiled.

“To be honest no-one is quite sure”, the policeman said. “But I checked the records one time and he only seems to have show up around some fifteen or so years ago.”

“Ah”, Sherlock said knowingly.

I glared at him. 

“'Ah'?” I said testily. He smirked but elaborated.

“That was 1887, the year of the Golden Jubilee”, he reminded me. “You may remember our attending one of the many events to mark it, 'Buffalo' Bill Cody's Wild West Show.”

This seemed to be a case full of reminders of that past, for my visit to that show along with Sherlock had been shortly before that shocking affair of the incriminating photograph (Lord Backwater's Downfall) which 'someone' still had in his desk. Framed!

Sherlock turned back to the policeman, although I was sure that there was a smirk in there somewhere. Constable Lake nodded.

“You are right, sir”, he said. “Local gossip is was that one of the Red Indian women in the show stole away to Lord Harry's estate and took her son with her. Mr. Smith is twenty-five so he would have been about ten back then, otherwise we would've thought.... I'm pretty sure you can guess, sir. She disappeared – no record of her anywhere.”

Sherlock frowned at that for some reason.

“Does your Lord Harry have an heir?” he asked.

“He's unmarried but he does have a relative he sort of adopted”, the policeman said. “I think they're first or second cousins; the young fellow is in his twenties so about twenty-five to thirty years younger than His Lordship. His name is Mr. George Dent. Not married but he is courting some girl down in Walthamstow or thereabouts.”

Sherlock seemed to think about that for a moment.

“When did this Mr. Dent arrive to the area?” he asked eventually.

“Only last year”, the policeman said. “Lord Harry knew about him well before and did all the legal what do you call it to make it work; the fellow was living elsewhere until then. No idea where though.”

“I think that I can work that one out”, Sherlock smiled. “Was Madam Worrea local or did she come to the area as well?”

“She lived in Highams Park a mile or so south of the town”, he said. “Posh area considering how downright annoying she was, but better the nobs there suffer her than anyone else. She was mostly off campaigning for this, that and the other all over the place but for the last year she was annoying everyone over 'saving the greensward', claiming that she would 'do a Queen Victoria and stop the expansion of the evil railway companies'. Funny thing; people normally support folks like her but she got on the wrong side of almost everyone especially with this Woodman's Lea business.”

“I myself have mixed views of the Great Eastern Railway Company”, Sherlock admitted, “although I have to say that having had the misfortune to meet Madam Worrea my opinion of them has since risen. Also they obliged me by re-employing two friends of mine and promoting a third, so they appear to be showing at least some good taste.”

I bit back a scowl at that. Yes, Sherlock's leering friend and his cousin Mr. Garrick's lover Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles had doubtless merited his promotion to platform manager at the start of this year, and with his ever growing family he certainly needed the income, but he was still wont to come round far too often and leer at _my_ man! It was downright annoying!

“The newspaper article said that Miss Worrea had been shot?” Sherlock asked, smiling for no apparent reason.

“Yes, sir.”

I was sure that his answer was given straight and without any hesitation but my friend's eyes narrowed. He stared at the young constable who visibly wilted.

“What is it?” he demanded.

_How did he do that?_

“It is just.... well, the doctor said that she was probably stabbed first and then shot”, the policeman said. “Or maybe stabbed just after. But why would anyone want to go and do that? I mean, either way she was dead already.”

Sherlock nodded.

“We need to go and see Madam Worrea's house”, he said, “and then I think a call on your Lord Harry. This is a most curious case all told but I think that I can see light at the end of the tunnel.”

 _Knowing my luck of late, it will be an approaching train_ , I thought dryly. _Probably bearing a tall, dark and handsome leering station Liverpool Street Station platform manager to boot!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Miss Worrea's house in Highams Park was most definitely _not_ what I was expecting. For someone who spent all her time campaigning for this, that or the other cause, it was bordering on the palatial. 

“Who inherits all this?” I wondered. I had considered that question earlier but now that I could see how wealthy the woman had been it took on a new dimension.

“Charities, mostly”, Constable Lake said. “She came from a rich family – her late father had her, two other daughters but no surviving sons, so the girls got a third of the estate each. Both her sisters are married with young families and living in distant parts of the kingdom; Wigtownshire and Merioneth-shire, though if she was my sister I'd have gone for distance too! She was estranged from them both so they got nothing – oh, except some of her late mother's jewellery which had to stay in the family. I thought of the money angle too doctor, but I doubt the people in charge of Epping Forest or saving the birds did her in. Unless of course she met them!”

“Do we know if anyone ever came here to see her?” Sherlock asked. 

“She wasn't popular”, the constable said, “like the rabies! Most people hid when they saw her coming; I doubt anyone would willingly subject themselves to such an ordeal. Even Bert the postie said he shot the letters through her box and scarpered in case she caught him. He laughed when he told me that the only time she ever had a parcel was when his 'relief' was on; poor Ned refused to speak to him for weeks afterwards, he said.”

“Your Mr. Smith never came here?” Sherlock asked. The policeman looked confused.

“I do not think so, sir. I mean, I never asked him that, but why would he?”

Sherlock nodded and prowled around the hallway before entering what turned out to be a fair-sized reception room. He seemed particularly fascinated by what I thought was only a medium-quality Turkish rug by the door but did not say why.

“Did Madam Worrea have any jewellery apart from the family items?” he asked after a while.

“She didn't seem the sort”, the constable said. “Her lawyer – Mr. Clancy, a right smarmy git – checked and sealed everything once he was told of her death. I nearly arrested him because one of the neighbours saw him and called me in. Was tempted to anyway, just to be on the safe side. He did tell me that she wanted to break the clause making her leave her sisters the family jewellery, but he advised her that it was watertight and they might be able to counter-claim for the whole estate.”

“Can you check her bedroom for me?” Sherlock asked him. “I am looking for what is most probably a cheap jewellery box, the sort of gewgaw that has a ballerina dancing and excruciating music when you open it. It may be important in the case.”

I was a little miffed that Sherlock had asked the constable instead of me but the fellow nodded and left the room. We heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

“John!”

What, in here of all places?

He rolled his eyes at me and I saw that he was moving the table and chairs for some reason. I helped, and once they were all shifted he turned over the circular rug that had been under the table. There was a small red stain on the underside.

“I _thought_ that I saw something!” he said triumphantly. “Quick, get it all put back!”

He pulled the carpet back down and we quickly replaced the furniture. As we walked out I could hear the constable crossing the landing to rejoin us. What on earth was going on?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock told the constable that he needed to do some research in the town library but would be grateful if we could meet the nobleman at the police-station later that afternoon. He sent off a telegram then we had a quick lunch and he then spent a long time in the library looking at local newspapers from recent weeks.

“Do you really know who killed the woman?” I asked once he was done and we were walking the short distance back to the police-station. He nodded.

“A strange case”, he said. “Not murder – or at least not a crime for which any person could ever be prosecuted. Most intriguing.”

“Who did it?” I asked.

“Three people were involved”, he said. “Ah, we are here.”

We went inside to find Constable Lake looking decidedly put-upon. We were in one of the larger rooms at the back of the place and the two gentlemen introduced to us were Lord Harold of Holybourne, who looked mildly perplexed at our presence, and his cousin and heir Mr. George Dent who looked at us most suspiciously. Lord Harold was a white-haired gentleman in his early fifties while his heir was dark-haired, in his mid-twenties and possibly had some sort of foreign blood in him from his looks.

“Mr. Holmes!” the constable exclaimed. “You will not _believe_ what has happened!”

“Well let me see”, Sherlock said. “Your local Red Indian Mr. Arthur Smith has made a sudden and unannounced move to pastures new, but not before leaving a note that confesses to his murder of Madam Worrea. In it he describes how he killed her with his throwing-knife before using a gun that he had stolen, in an effort to try to hide the crime. How am I doing?”

I wondered if the constable was going to have a seizure. He certainly seemed to be having trouble breathing. It was Lord Holybourne who broke the silence.

“How much do you know?” he asked coolly. Sherlock smiled at him.

“Most, if not all”, he said. “Unpleasant though that woman was, small few people actually deserve to be killed.” He paused before adding, “except given the precise circumstances, she was among that small few.”

I stared at him, totally perplexed. He sat back and smiled.

“This was a very curious case”, he said. “I found the answer or at least a key part to it in the local newspapers. The ones from up to a year ago when this to-do over Woodman's Lea began were either sympathetic or ambivalent towards Madam Worrea. But when she crossed swords with the 'local Red Indian' – and there are three words I did not think ever to pass my lips – the press turned against her. There may be some xenophobia in the English character but there is a far wider steak of fair play, and the newspapers correctly assessed that their readers would back the peaceable foreign interloper rather than the truculent local campaigner. Indeed in the run-up to her death they had become positively hostile to her, investigating every aspect of her past life for whatever they could find.”

“Strange though it sounds to say such a thing, people like Madam Worrea are the children of this world. They crave attention, they crave praise, they desire above all else to be liked. It is the Good Lord's oft-cited 'sense of humour' that such a thing is unattainable to them, as their true personality sooner rather than later repels just about everyone that they encounter. Madam Worrea found to her _chagrin_ that because she had crossed swords with the wrong opponent – I am sure that she believed public opinion would be on her side in this contention as her sort always do – she lost what little popularity she had gained thus far. She blamed Mr. Smith, so she decided to kill him. A child's solution; remove the annoyance regardless of trifling things such as morality and the law.”

I swallowed. He sounded so calm, taking about a planned murder.

“As things turned out however, she had fatally underestimated her opponent. She invited him to her house on some pretext where she planned to do the deed.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“The house has been well tidied after the killing”, he said, “which detail I shall return to later, but on the table I found the unmistakeable scratches that can only be caused when a revolver or pistol is placed there. She sat there waiting for her victim to come through the door when she would kill him. There were also some red hairs on the curtain at the height of someone sat on a chair next to it and one hair on the floor beneath it, although the chair was subsequently moved.”

“She forgot however that she was dealing with someone as physically adept as Mr. Smith. He suspected her intentions, and very wisely reconnoitred the house beforehand. He was able to enter the room suddenly, catch his would-be killer off-guard and kill her with his throwing-knife. He then shot her, most likely through some sort of wrap to hide the noise. There was however a little blood loss and the men in charge of the cover-up did not notice that it has seeped through to the underside of the table rug. Nor did they notice what are undeniably skid marks under the rug by the entrance, where someone has made a sudden shift of position before throwing a knife.”

“You said 'they'”, I asked. “They who?”

Sherlock looked around at the other three men in the room, all of whom looked away.

“To understand this crime we need to go back into the last century”, he said. “Much as I admire the English nobility as a rule, I have to say that you, Lord Holybourne, lied when you told everyone that you were allowing a Red Indian onto your land. For one thing, a good friend of mine who hails from that continent told me that contrary to what most people believe, real wigwams do not have the sort of markings that I see the one down by Woodman's Lea possesses in the newspaper photographs of it. Mr. Arthur Smith was not the son of a squaw who decided to bring him here then conveniently vanished. The papers from that time state that _you_ , my lord, were in the United States for many years before Mr. Cody graced these shores with his fine show. Many as in at least twenty-five.”

He turned to Mr. Dent.

“Are you his natural son or his nephew?” 

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Your colleague is as sharp as your books portray him, doctor”, Mr. Dent said ruefully. “I am indeed his nephew, the son of His Lordship's elder brother Horace who had just become lord of the manor at that time. He had an affair with my mother and then most cruelly abandoned her. My uncle here stood by her, and when my father died some little while later, my uncle timed his return to that of the show.”

“But why did you stay a Red Indian over here?” I asked now totally bemused. He shrugged.

“I did not”, he said. “But on arriving in Liverpool we stayed overnight in a hotel and the following morning I had a telegraph waiting for me. It stated that for my own safety I should be what I once was until a time would come when my life would be in danger.”

“You have no idea who sent it?” I asked. 

He reddened for some reason.

“That was why I was so wary when I heard you were here, sir”, he said. “You see, the sender of the telegram was one 'Mr. S. Holmes'.”

Sherlock and I exchanged looks. We both knew who that telegram had likely come from.

“It was the advent of the terrible Madam Worrea that was to threaten your life”, Sherlock said, recovering first from the memories of past deeds and present siblings. “When her plans for your death ended in her own, your uncle rallied round by helping stage your disappearance. But he was not the only one. _Was he, constable?”_

Constable Lake had turned bright red. He stared hard at the floor.

“Omitting a detail like two causes of death was suspicious enough”, Sherlock said, “but only someone with inside knowledge could have come up with the clever idea of placing the body on the border between two constabularies, knowing as you do that there would be the inevitable 'turf war'. Ironically that was one of the things that brought me in on the case; a brilliant police friend of mine in London correctly suspected that such a move meant that a policeman had to have been involved somewhere.”

The constable slowly nodded.

“What do you intend to do about it?” Lord Holybourne asked.

“I do not see that there is anything that I _can_ do about it”, Sherlock said resignedly. “This terrible woman very clearly planned to murder your nephew, Lord Holybourne, and she met a deserved end when her plans backfired. Since there was no premeditation on his part your nephew could never be tried for murder, and even if a manslaughter charge did come before a jury they would rightly conclude that he acted in self-defence as he did not approach the house with any intent to commit a crime, just to defend himself as is every man's right. The cover-up disturbs me but given the way that the press respond in such cases nowadays, I can see the necessity for it. However.....”

He wagged a finger at all three men.

“However, I have had a few cases like this before” he said, “where a crime has been committed and a conviction would for various reasons have been impossible. In each case I have kept an eye on those involved. If any one of you ever ventures any further down the criminal path then I may re-visit this case. In the meantime, I shall wish you all a good day.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Why are you smiling?”

Sherlock looked at me curiously. We had just boarded the train back to Liverpool Street and would soon be safely ensconced within the thick walls of dear old 221B. 

“Just remembering that time you dressed up as a Red Indian brave”, I said. “The war-paint, the loin-cloth, the weapon......”

He was suddenly very close to me.

“Ah yes”, he said. “The savage warrior ready to have his way with the all-too-willing white settler. Using his.... _mighty_ weapon!”

I gulped.

“You... I..... Oh Lord!”

“Tonight!” he said darkly.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Role-play was going to be the end of me! Someone would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to the poor funeral directors!

Twenty-two months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	6. Case 339: Holmes Of Arabia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. John Watson's least favourite Cornishman narrates a curious tale in which his sister-in-law is worried about her son Tantalus, Sherlock's 'sort of nephew'. But all is not what it seems (when is it ever?) as someone desperately needs things to stay in the dark.

_[Narration by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire]_

It had been twenty-three years ago that a beautiful young fellow with impossibly blue eyes and a charming smile had come down to the little harbour at Hugh Town, and had set about asking if there was someone who could take him out to the tiny island of Annet. It was not just that this Adonis had spoke fluent Cornish (which was rare enough even back then) but that he had shone with a sort of inner goodness that there is nowhere near enough of these days. I had been but eighteen summers and full six years his junior, but I had so wished that he could be mine. 

Then, life being the cruel bastard that it so often is, another fellow had appeared next to him, a shorter, stockier and much plainer fellow who had looked uncertainly around as if he had never seen boats and fishermen before. And the way that the first gentleman had looked at him, I just _knew_. Even if the object of his longing had all the emotional capacity of a peanut (and that was a generous assessment!), the Adonis loved him. Damnation!

It would be some eleven years later and in a very different environment when I next met the two gentlemen, as after my arrival in London I had been fortunate enough to uncover a dark plot aimed at my future friend. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was then in what would later prove to be the most turbulent period of his busy life as he had been striving against the dark forces of a villain called Professor James Moriarty. He was still clearly adoring the hopeless dolt of a fellow with him who I doubted could have recognized a feeling unless it had marched by in a parade with a seventy-piece band playing 'This Is A Feeling, John Hamish Watson' at full volume. Perhaps not even then! Shortly after that I heard the tragic news of Mr. Holmes's demise; I think that that was one of the few times In my life that I have ever cried.

My discovery of the truth was a painful one for me personally, even though it made me glad. Returning from a client some three years later I happened to pass 221B Baker Street just as the landlady Mrs. Hudson – now Mrs. Malone; one of the few ladies apart from my late mother who I have ever truly feared – had come to the door. She, bless her, kindly informed me that her tenant's 'death' had in fact been faked and that Mr. Holmes and his friend were back upstairs. I felt there to be something rather more to her words but she had a pistol and living in London I had quickly learned when not to push my luck, so I went on my way – but not before I saw a very naked man being pressed hard against the second-floor window of the house with the sort of expression that I knew meant only one thing.

John Hamish Watson had got the message – and he was about to get something else!

Over the years that followed, my position as under-manager at the molly-houses once owned by Mr. Holmes's half-brother and now by his friend the wonderful Sweyn meant that I visited 221B frequently, and I found it increasingly amusing that the doctor so very clearly resented my presence. I may have very occasionally made just a little of the fact I was _over eight years his junior_ and I most certainly gave Mr. Holmes some 'pointers' to make his evenings in that little bit more interesting. He often invited me round just to incite his normally calm and collected lover's jealousy – there may or may not have been the occasional cash payment though nothing that could ever have been proven – but as we all gained from that, I said nothing. Although I may have treated myself to a small smirk at the thought of the doctor who actually growled at me sometimes being.... yes.

Five years ago our connections increased further when my dear brother Blaze became employed by Mr. Holmes's ghastly eldest brother Mycroft and his then-wife Rachael That any man would dare to raise his hand against a lady was appalling beyond measure, and when he did it in front of Blaze the resulting blaze was all too predictable. Fortunately Mr. Holmes sorted the whole mess out, a divorce was obtained and Rachael later became my sister-in-law giving me a distant tie to the Holmes family. 

Doctor Watson's pout when I mentioned that fact during one visit was _hilarious!_

It was this link that led to a small matter in which I once more called on Mr. Holmes for assistance. We were all older now; the doctor had passed fifty, Mr. Holmes was forty-eight and I was forty-two. But still over eight years younger than the doctor. Not forgetting my beloved Italian stallions Salerio and Solario who think that a good weekend is one where they can remain naked and use me as some sort of sex toy to be passed between them as and when it suits (I have somehow not yet gotten round to discouraging them in this belief). It is definitely true what they say about Latin men, and there is the faint possibility that neither I nor Mr. Holmes have mentioned this relationship to Doctor Watson yet. Oh well.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

When my soon to be sister-in-law had obtained her final divorce from the unpleasant Mr. Mycroft Holmes. an agreement had been reached that the latter would keep and raise his younger son Midas, an unprepossessing youth whom I did not like on sight and indeed whose arrogant approach to life had recently seen him find out just how dangerous an electric railway could be (fatally). Of Rachael's other children the three eldest daughters, Mary, Charlotte and Elizabeth, had all moved out before the divorce and the fourth, Rachael, had followed them last month. That left the youngest daughter Ruth (twenty-one and engaged to be married) and Tantalus (eighteen) at home. The boy had a quite striking appearance that looked almost Red Indian I thought, but he was good-hearted and I knew that Blaze rated him very highly. Not forgetting the most recent addition to the family two years back, Blaze's and Rachael's son Austol.

One thing about my new nephew had puzzled me somewhat, namely that he had retained his surname. Rachael had of course become Mrs. Trevelyan but although at eighteen Tantalus could with her permission change his name too, he had opted to remain a Holmes. Certainly it could not be because of his excuse for a first father Mr. Mycroft Holmes whom I knew he loathed, so I presumed that it must have been his affection for my.... Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It still seemed odd, though. 

Blaze was never much of a talker; indeed the fact that he had managed a whole sentence in praise of his new stepson during my last visit was frankly something of a miracle! About the only person he did talk to was little Austol, and that I think was only because he had read that young children needed that in order to develop their own vocabularies. It was not that he could not talk to others but more that he found expressing himself difficult and preferred to keep silent. Rachael had had sharp words with one local _grande dame_ who had made rude remarks about her husband, and had told her that that was a damn sight better than never shutting up and spreading gossip across half of Middlesex unlike some people that she could mention.

I _liked_ my sister-in-law!

It was Rachael who pulled me aside one day when Blaze and Tantalus were playing football in the garden. She looked troubled, which I did not like at all.

“I had to go into Tan's room the other day”, she said looking nervously through the window in case either her husband or son suddenly decided to come back in. “He is normally quite tidy but there was a sock that I could not find, and Blaze said that he thought he had seen it on the floor. I went in and sure enough I could see it sticking out from under the bed.”

I winced. She had looked under a teenage boy's bed. There was no way that this story could end well. 

She nodded at my expression.

“I pulled the sock out and found a bank book under it”, she said. “I did not want to but.... it sort of fell open.”

I tried not to come over all judgemental, but..... honestly? That was right down there with 'my wife doesn't understand me' and 'I am not normally into men' when it came to Great Canards Of Our Time. She clearly caught my incredulity and hurried on.

“Someone has been depositing sums of money into an account in his name”, she said. “Quite large sums. I think that it may have something to do with where he goes every weekend as the deposits were always on a Monday.”

“Where is that?” I asked.

“He wants to become a station-master”, she sighed. “It is not what I would have wished but.... after all that we have gone through I just want him to be happy. Someone at his school knew the station-master at Rigsby Station and we agreed to let him go there on weekends, especially as it is just one straight journey. But once I saw this I began to think of all those times he has kept coming home tired and I wondered..... you know.”

I shook my head at her.

“Certainly not!” I said firmly. “Sweyn and I may only run a few of the many places in London but we know everyone else who does. If a relative of any of us – especially one not yet twenty-one – tried to enter the business, we would have heard about it within days if not hours. We protect our own.”

I did not add that that was because Mr. Holmes himself had several interesting friends who the owners of such businesses, naturally alert to any potential danger, would not have wished to become of interest to. She did not look reassured. 

“I will tell you what”, I said. “I shall go and visit Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson for you. I am sure that they can make some discreet inquiries and find out what is causing this.”

“You do not think....”

“We must not think anything”, I said firmly. “All we have in a bank-book and some transactions for which there may be any number of different explanations. Let us not assume the worst.”

Even if I myself did. But I tried to look hopeful.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was Guy Fawkes's Night when I returned to the capital which meant an evening of loud bangs outside rather than in. It was one of the quieter nights of the year for the business; married men felt compelled to be with their families to mark the occasion before returning to us to fulfil their baser needs soon after, which was fortunate as many of the boys had families of their own that they wished to be with.

I arrived at 221B and was shown up to see Mr. Holmes who was clearly pleased to see me, and Doctor Watson who, I hoped, was better at faking things for his poor patients. Either that or he was suffering from trapped wind. I explained matters to Mr. Holmes who nodded in understanding.

“For Tantalus I must make some inquiries, of course”, he said. “He is a good fellow.”

“He is blood”, I agreed.

To my surprise the two men looked at each other.

“What is it?” I asked. “He has nothing of his father in him I know, but...”

“Actually he is the image of his father”, Mr. Holmes said. “Some years after we met you there was a visit to London by a Pacific Island potentate called Prince Tane, who is now king of his small but strategically placed nation, Strafford Island. He was.... how can I put it?”

“A randy young so-and-so!” the doctor said, looking pointedly at me.

Even the normally unflappable Mr. Holmes was hard put to conceal a smirk at that blatant display of jealousy. He just about managed it.

“Let us say that there was a spike in the birth rate some nine months after his visit, and that one of the ladies he found time to be alone with was your recently acquired sister-in-law”, he said. “He had if I remember correctly been allocated someone whose job it was to show him around, but it seems that that person was not quite one hundred per cent effective in keeping tabs on him.”

He did not even look round, but I could have warmed myself from the doctor's blush. I failed to hold back a snigger by some distance and earned myself another dark glare.

“I do have one question”, Mr. Holmes said. “I was unaware of my nephew – I continue to regard him as such for he is a fine young fellow – having any interest in railways. Make that two questions; why somewhere I have never heard of that must as it is on the Metropolitan Railway not be that far from London. John, do you know of this Rigsby place?”

“The Sheikh of Arbir owns the hall there, having purchased it from Mrs. Cutteslowe after her husband the government minister died”, the doctor said, still clearly unhappy at my presence. “We could get there in a single train ride from Baker Street.”

“When did this sheikh make his purchase, do you know?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“May this year”, his friend said. 

“Oh”, I said.

They both looked at me.

“That is a coincidence”, I said. “The first payment in the bank book was at the start of June.”

“Coincidences do happen”, Mr. Holmes said. “This may be one of them, or it may not. I rather think we need to go down to Rigsby and see what is afoot, preferably with my nephew if possible.”

“Why with him?” Doctor Watson asked.

“Because I have a feeling that this matter will require very careful handling”, Mr. Holmes said. “I wonder....”

He stopped and thought for a moment then smiled. 

“We might as well make the government work for our taxes”, he said. “John, can you take a telegram to the post-office for me?”

The doctor would very clearly rather not have left me and his friend together, but he could hardly say as much. Glaring at me all the way he left us. And I did not make a point to be laughing and joking with Mr. Holmes just as he returned. That was just a coincidence.

Sort of a coincidence?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

While Doctor Watson was gone Mr. Holmes had asked me if I would not mind waiting an hour as he was expecting someone with potentially useful information to attend him shortly. I asked how he had managed that given that I had only just told him about the case. 

“My brother Randall has planted a mole in the post-office across the road”, he smiled. “So when I send a dummy telegram to my friend Miss St. Leger requesting information about the Sheikh of Arbir – she will know it is such because I always sign it in a peculiar way – he will be alerted, have a complete panic attack then dash round here to tell us why I must not interfere in Important Government Business That Is None Of My Concern.”

I wondered at that but my musings were cut short by the doctor's return, panting as he had clearly hurried up the long stairs. We talked amiably enough – well two of us did – for some forty-five minutes before a maid brought up a card.

“'Mr. Randall Holmes'”, Mr. Holmes read with a smile. _”What_ a surprise!”

“I am surprised that the pest did not come straight up”, the doctor said.

“I alerted Mrs. Malone to the possibility of a visit”, Mr. Holmes said. “She was sorting through her new boxes of ammunition in her room, with the door open. Even Randall cannot miss _that_ sort of hint!”

The doctor was clearly wondering how his friend had known of his brother's arrival but soon the fellow was in the room himself. He looked at me as if I were something that the cat had dragged in and did I not know that I was expected to make room for my betters? Something I did know, except I also knew some of the things that this rat had done to his own baby brother and I would sooner have pushed the villain into the fire. I was sure that in that at least the doctor would have willingly helped, and given the _cologne_ positively reeking off the pest he would have gone up very well!

“You are making inquiries into the Sheikh of Arbir”, Mr. Randall Holmes said sharply. He was nothing like either Mr. Holmes or their unpleasant brother Mycroft; my friend had said all his siblings were physically very different and this one had an eminently slappable face in my opinion. We had more than our fair share of his sort in the houses, usually thinking that they owned the place. The last one had been sufficiently annoying that we had loosed Algy on him with no preparation; he had been crying as he had staggered away and had never been seen again.

“Am I?” Mr. Holmes said innocently. “I rather think that you will find I am sitting in my room in Baker Street just now. _You_ are not making inquiries into anything, are you John?”

I narrowly stifled a giggle. His answer had clearly annoyed his brother no end.

“You will stop them”, the visitor said firmly.

“Why?”

I could just see the 'Because!' answer forming in the unpleasant fellow's mind and exactly when he realized (hopefully from bitter experience) that that would get him precisely nowhere. He took a deep breath and tried another tack.

“Arbir is one of the pivotal nations in the Arabian Peninsula”, he said. “If the Ottoman Empire does do the dirty on us when this Continental war finally happens, we shall need all the help that we can get in the region. Having to watch their backs with places like Arbir will mean less troops coming against us.”

“Politics bores me, as you well know”, Mr. Holmes yawned. “Who is the leader of this so important regional power, did you say?”

“Sheikh Khalid”, his visitor said, clearly annoyed at the lack of help that he was getting. “Only young; he is not yet twenty but they forced his father off the throne when he went off his rocker even for that part of the world. The young fellow has a place way out in the country some place where he keeps his harem. Randy little bugger from what I hear, but that is normal for that part of the world.

I was sure that I heard the phrase 'pots and kettles' as Doctor Watson coughed. Mr. Holmes smiled sweetly at his brother. That seemed to annoy the rat even more, which was all well and good.

“What do you know, Sherlock?” he demanded.

“You mean apart from the fact you get annoyed every time I smile like this?” Mr. Holmes said innocently. “I _do_ know something.”

He clearly enjoyed baiting his elder brother. I would have too, but then I had Blaze. They would probably never find my body. 

What was I thinking? They would _definitely_ never find my body!

“I shall be investigating this matter”, Mr. Holmes said firmly, “and you will not stop me. Otherwise I may just mention to Muriel about that recent journey of yours into Scotland.”

“Hah!” his brother snorted. “I have not been North of the Border any time this past year!”

“I meant your official trip to a certain nobleman's country house”, Mr. Holmes grinned. “”I believe the maid into whom you delved quite deeply was a Miss Patricia Scotland?”

His brother scowled mightily at him, then at the doctor who was very pointedly muttering 'Scotland, maid, country house, delving deeply' as he made notes, then at me (presumably he did not wish me to feel left out) before departing with a mighty huff. I allowed myself a chuckle.

“I have one or two inquiries to make just to be sure”, Mr. Holmes said, “but I think that we can safely arrange to go down to Rigsby tomorrow. We shall take Tantalus so that we can talk with him without his mother being present.”

“And Blaze”, I pointed out.

“I am quite sure that your silent brother already knows”, Mr. Holmes said airily. 

I stared at him in shock.

“How can he?” I managed eventually. “I mean he is....”

“One of the most observant gentlemen that it has ever been my pleasure to meet”, Mr. Holmes finished for me. “We have been walking around his house on two occasions and his talents – I had considered myself skilled in that area but underneath all that silence he is the master. I am sure that he knows exactly what his stepson has been up to, and I can assume that since the boy has not died of shock recently, his stepfather cannot have confronted him over it. Since as you say Blaze has a terrible temper I am sure that he has come to accept the situation. Maybe not happily, but he loves Rachael too much to tell her the truth.”

“What truth?” the doctor demanded. “And what situation? You have not even been there.”

“I just know”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Because I am me.”

“Mr. Modest!” the doctor muttered.

I was sure there had been no perceptible change in Mr. Holmes's expression, but the doctor turned suddenly very pale.

“Lowen”, Mr. Holmes said levelly, “We shall meet you here at half-past nine tomorrow morning.”

The doctor actually _whimpered!_

“Yes I had better be off”, I said rising quickly to my feet. “Goodbye!”

I made it to the door but did not have it shut behind me before I heard the sound of the doctor racing for the bedroom. Judging from the oath that suddenly cut in he may not have made it. I did not like the fellow but I crossed myself and hoped that there might be enough left of him the next day for our trip. I slid the red marker across the door and did not smile as I went down the stairs.

Not _all_ the way down. It was only a wide grin some of the time.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following morning I returned to find the doctor in very poor shape (unsurprising), Mr. Holmes very pointedly smirking (unsurprising but clearly annoying to his friend) and my nephew.

“Father arranged for me to take a day off school now that my exams are over”, the young fellow said. “He did not say why though. Uncle Sherlock?”

I could see that the great detective was affected by that appellation, and I belatedly realized why my nephew had perhaps kept the Holmes name. Mr. Holmes coughed and managed to pull himself together.

“We are going down to Rigsby”, he said.

Perhaps I had been wrong the day before about Doctor Watson going deathly pale faster than anyone that I had ever seen. My nephew was giving him a good run for his money.

“Ri... Ri... Rigsby?” he gasped. Mr. Holmes fixed him with a look.

“Yes”, he said. “To see your friend, and to sort matters that need sorting.”

“Please God no!” the young fellow cried. “You cannot tell my parents!”

“Your father already knows”, Mr. Holmes said casually.

The doctor had to support poor Tan. I had been wrong; apparently he _could_ look worse.

“He cannot!” he said firmly. “How?”

“Because he arranged this trip”, Mr. Holmes said, looking at me for some reason.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“As I said, your brother is observant”, he said. “Like me he noticed that his teenage stepson was very careful and neat, not offering any excuse for either of his parents to enter his room. That and his recent tiredness quite rightly aroused the silent Blaze's suspicions.”

He stopped and looked pointedly at his friend, who was caught mid-smile at the word 'aroused'. Doctor Watson blushed and Mr. Holmes gave him the sort of look that said they would likely be having more than words later. It was some talent, making a grown man tremble like that.

“Blaze searched his stepson's room and found the bank-book”, Mr. Holmes said still eyeing his friend like a dog viewing a juicy bone. “He was then in a somewhat difficult position. Having worked out what was going on I am sure that his immediate instinct was one of violence, but now he had a wife and children to consider so that was not an option. Instead he most cunningly inveigled me into his schemes; I can only say I am glad that he exhibits no criminal tendencies or I would be rushed off my feet!”

“He extracts a single sock from his son's laundry then, when his wife asks about it, mentions that he remembered seeing one on the floor in the boy's room. He has already placed the bank-book underneath it and he has ensured that his wife's 'discovery' will occur just before one of your visits to the house, Lowen, knowing that you will likely contact me and that I will resolve matters for him.

I silently seethed. That sly, conniving, evil, twisted brother of mine! And worst of all, he was still bigger than me!

Mr. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Perhaps when you see what he was dealing with, you may understand better”, he said. “Our mutual nephew here has been rather busy of late, have you not Tan?”

Man or boy, no-one should not have been able to turn that shade of red.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some little time later a smart little Metropolitan Railway train deposited the four of us at Rigsby Station, a small and neat affair serving a fair-sized village of that name to one side and the impressive Rigsby Hall to the other. I wondered if we would be admitted to what was pretty much foreign soil but Mr. Holmes wrote something on his card and would not let even the doctor see it before handing it over, and whatever it was it led to them sending a carriage down to collect us. What _had_ my nephew been up to in these parts?

We were greeted by Sheikh Khalid himself, who looked far more the English gentleman back from foreign climes than some prince who held the power of life and death over his small but important nation. I know that it is a cliché but I somehow expected the place to be thronging with his wives who the newspapers had variously counted as somewhere between forty and one hundred. Instead there was but one lady dressed much as I had expected and who sat quietly behind the sheikh not looking at us.

“Mr. Holmes, gentlemen”, the sheikh smiled. “This is an honour.”

His voice had barely a trace of a foreign accent. He was also very clearly wary for some reason. My nephew was contriving to stare his way out through the floor by the looks of things. I felt more and more confused.

“It is for us all”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “This is but a short business visit, merely to clarify certain matters that need clarifying. Certainly not to change anything.”

For once I shared Doctor Watson's visible confusion. 

“The boy's father?” the sheikh asked.

“He is prepared to accept the arrangement”, Mr. Holmes said. “It is a tad irregular, but the world is not a neat and tidy place at the best of times, which these are not. My nephew is, if I may say, definitely 'up' for it.”

Tantalus gave him such a look!

“What is going on here?” Doctor Watson asked plaintively. Mr. Holmes smiled.

“Sheikh Khalid and our nephew here were at school together”, he said, “and agreed to what one might call a.... slightly unconventional arrangement.” He looked at the lady sat behind the sheikh. “I am to take it that this is the lucky lady?”

“You tease the poor doctor, just like in his books Mr. Holmes”, the sheikh said reprovingly. “Yes, this is Elizabeth. My wife, my life, my all.”

The lady stood and curtsied to us, but said nothing and sat back down. Mr. Holmes turned to myself and Doctor Watson.

“In Arbir it is thought quite unnatural for the sheikh not to possess – and of course make use of – at least one hundred 'wives'”, he said. “The sheikh could not bring them all to England, but he found a clever way round that. By visiting here for a set time each year he brought say one-quarter of them over at a time.”

“One-third”, the sheikh corrected with a smile. “Go on.”

“One-third”, Mr. Holmes agreed. “Unfortunately there were two problems. Firstly the sheikh had been struck by Cupid's arrow and wished to have only one wife, the lady here whom he loves. That would have been thought _most_ peculiar in his homeland and might even have led to his overthrow; there are more than enough hostile powers in the area who would have readily assisted such a move. Secondly there was the most awkward fact that he was expected to 'do his duty' by the other wives.”

He turned back to the sheikh.

“How did you overcome the obvious problem?” he asked. 

The young ruler smiled again.

“My court seer is a good friend”, he said, “and he was compelled by tradition to yield up his own wife to me. In return for the obvious he foretold that a son 'born in the light' would ruin our nation, which allowed me to have what you might call the 'service bedchamber' totally blacked out. My wives here know only that they are made love to in the dark by a skilled young lover who must not be seen, and they accept that. Some body-rub completes the mirage.”

I felt totally lost – but then I got it. I stared at Tantalus in horror. Mr. Holmes and the sheikh both smiled at my reaction.

“I think that Lowen has just worked out why a certain teenager arrives back from his country sojourns so exhausted of a weekend”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Poor Tan. It must be.... hard!”

Tantalus looked as if he wanted to die! 

_“Not_ helping!” he hissed.

“The boy's father loves his wife enough to accept this unusual state of affairs”, Mr. Holmes told the sheikh. “Indeed, he may even allow him to visit Arbir one day and, ahem, 'see' the rest of the wives. Holmes of Arabia.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There is little more to be said. We stopped off at Blaze's house on the way home and Mr. Holmes explained all to him. I am sure that there are more annoying things in this world than seriously smug elder brothers who are bigger than me and who could smirk for Planet Earth, but I have yet to find any! We deposited a mortified Tantalus there and continued back to London.

I still got a death-glare from Doctor Watson when I perhaps spent a little too long thanking Mr. Holmes and shaking his hand. I am quite sure that the great detective was doing it deliberately, for the blinds were already down on the window by the time I was outside the building. I decided to go back to the molly-house.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sol stared down at me reprovingly and he and Sal held me between them. We were all three relaxed after a hot shower together, I to wash off the grime of my travels (and a certain relative's damnably annoying smugness) and they after a client who was apparently still recovering. An evening of slow, passionate love-making beckoned. Life was good.

“You were supposed to tell them that you are in a steady relationship now”, Sol said reprovingly. “Did you forget _again?”_

“It must have slipped my mind _again_ ”, I smiled. “I am sure that I will remember it next time. Probably. Besides, the doctor gets jealous whenever I visit and I know that Mr. Holmes enjoys that. Even if maybe certain body parts of his do not!”

“Perhaps we might follow the sheikh's example”, Sal mused, pulling me and his twin even closer. “We could set up that large room at the back as a sheikh's palace and have the two of us service someone one after the other.”

“Death through sexual exhaustion!” I chuckled. “That would get us in the newspapers for sure.”

“I could volunteer to try it out in my spare time”, Sal teased. “For customer service purposes, of course!”

I scowled, but then relaxed as I felt them begin to yet again work as a team. Beyond work hours they were mine, and it was staying that way!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	7. Interlude: A Town Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Faster!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John was not pouting. Or at least he said that he was not. It still looked remarkably like a pout, and had it not traumatized our cab-driver I might well have had my way with him right there and then!

“Benji looked well”, I said innocently.

He glared at me. We were returning from our friend Benji's fortieth birthday party, which had been marked by his ever-increasing family from across London. The gentleman whom we had rescued from the horrors of the Tankerville Club was now a platform manager at Liverpool Street Station and a respectable London citizen whose pretty wife was expecting child number eighteen any day now. Also both she and Benji had looked at me in a way that John Had Not Liked.

We had also met my brother Carl and his lover Danny there, as well of course as my cousin Luke. Carl had looked totally out of it I had thought, but that was what you got when you were in your mid-fifties and your younger lover was the sort of person who dragged you off to a back room and emerged sometime later with what could only have been described as a strut, which of course was something that I never did. At least my brother would not have to worry too much about his military pension; Danny was going to 'sex' him into an early grave.

I wondered if I might do the same with John...... deliberately or inadvertently. Ah well, what would be would be; at least it would look good on his gravestone.

“Their new home is good”, John said. “It was good of you to help them get it.”

That had been one of my less pleasant dealings recently, as the owner of the new house that Mrs. Jackson-Giles had set her heart on was not only an overt racist but worse, the sort of fellow who went round telling everyone about their own lesser failings. Fortunately an anonymous buyer had offered him the full price subject to an immediate sale, and the Jackson-Gileses had been able to move into their new house a few months back. Certain financial problems said bigot may have subsequently experienced were just 'one of those things'.

“Parties are all right”, I said, “especially as _someone_ had the foresight to ask them to lay on chocolate cake, but it will be good to get back to Baker Street. These panties are not fully worn in yet.”

I flashed him the briefest glimpse of purple, and for a moment I wondered if he might beat Carl to the grave after all. He whined before banging on the roof of the cab.

“Driver! Go faster!”

I just smirked.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	8. Case 340: A Journey On The U.S.S. Enterprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. Yet another case where the 'victim' seemed to have notched up far too many enemies, and Sherlock has only a limited time in which to resolve matters. Meanwhile John spends a lot of time looking down the sides of a ship and saying farewell to various meals that he had been all too briefly acquainted with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the litmus paper case.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: The ship in this story was the fourth 'U.S.S. Enterprise'† in the United States Navy following a 1775 sloop captured from the British and two schooners from 1799 and 1831, the name deriving from a early eighteenth century captured (1705) French ship which, in the custom of the time, had had its British name Anglicized from 'L'Entreprise' (sometimes spelled 'Enterprize') on joining the Royal Navy.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off The Hoo Peninsula, Kent**

The huge triple-masted screw-driven sloop that we were on was I knew less than thirty years old, yet it already looked as if it belonged to a bygone era. The 'U.S.S. Enterprise' had been designed primarily as a science vessel and having long been superseded by faster and better craft had been handed over to a training college in the United States. It had however recently been on our side of the Atlantic first to show an American presence in the Mediterranean, then as part of the recent Coronation celebrations and finally on a goodwill visit to the port of Boston, Lincolnshire, whence the 'Mayflower' settlers had departed nearly three centuries past. Now she was on her way home – except that there was a politically delicate matter to deal with, which was why Sherlock had been brought in.

I leaned over the side and uttered a silent and heartfelt curse against King Neptune who seemed determined to make my latest (and hopefully last!) major sea-journey as unpleasant as so many before it. The problem facing my friend was one of jurisdiction; the incident that we were investigating had occurred while the ship had been in British waters. Hence the American ambassador had agreed to Sherlock going on board to try to find out what had happened, on the premise that the ship was definitely sailing for home and we would be leaving the ship at Falmouth whether my friend's investigations into the problem at hand were concluded or not.

The problem at hand for me was keeping anything down!

The captain of the ship was a young and frighteningly focussed fellow called James Tiberius Kirk (I privately felt the emphasis should have been on the middle name). He had made it patently clear that Sherlock's presence on his ship was only tolerated because he had been overruled and that he himself could not wait to be rid of us. The captain's second-in-command was an even stranger fellow, a Mr. Nemo Spock. He was tall, dark-haired and I felt almost other-worldly in his manner. Indeed I was half-minded to suspect that Mr. Herbert George Wells had been partly right and that the Martians were already here but in a good disguise (his slightly pointed ears did not help matters either). He was not so much unfriendly, just clinically and coldly efficient. Fortunately the ship's doctor was a much more pleasant fellow called Leonard McCoy, and we bonded over medicinal matters as people in our profession often did. It was he who explained the case to us.

“One of the president's buddies, a guy called George van der Walk, was over in your country for a year sailing his yacht around the whole island”, he explained. “When we were leaving Boston he ran across us – or more exactly, we ran over him! He ignored warnings to keep clear and we ended up splitting his craft in two and having to pick him out of the water. He wasn't exactly thrilled as you might guess.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“My cousin Luke was most uninformative as to exactly what 'crime' had been perpetrated”, he said, sounding annoyed. “Or even if there was a crime.”

Doctor McCoy looked oddly embarrassed for some reason.

“You see, this van der Walk guy is half-English”, he said. “When we took him on board well, as I said he wasn't a happy bunny to start with. But in the short time we took to get to London he had managed to upset just about everyone on the whole damn ship! He was rude, arrogant, overbearing.... it wouldn't have surprised me if you'd been brought in to investigate his murder, gentlemen! Thankfully it's not as serious as that.”

“The captain naturally ceded his own cabin for the comfort of our 'honoured guest' and yesterday morning, just before we docked in London, he took a shower. And... um....”

We both looked at him expectantly.

“One of the men must've substituted his normal soap with one that was imbued with itching powder”, the doctor said, red-faced. “He was livid! He told the captain that he would definitely be calling on his friend the president and would make sure none of us ever sailed again. As you probably know this crew were brought on board specially as the old girl is only a training ship these days, so I don't want to see a whole load of careers ruined just because of one idiot's foolish prank.”

“I do not see that I am going to be much help to you”, Sherlock sighed. “I suppose that I could find the culprit, but then that person's life will be ruined for a silly jape. But I suppose that that is better that than several dozen people suffering the same fate. Who had access to the captain's cabin, please?”

“Obviously the captain himself”, the doctor said. “And Commander Spock has a key in case of emergency. The room is guarded around the clock by one of the young cadets; the captain keeps all sorts of papers in there I suppose.”

“You of course have access as the ship's doctor”, Sherlock said. Doctor McCoy nodded.

“Like the commander, I have to in case I need to assume control of the ship for some reason”, he said. 

I made a mental note that my medical colleague had not volunteered that information himself. Hmm.

“Where is the captain sleeping now?” I asked.

“The regular captain, Mr. Pike, had a small side-room fitted out with a basic bunk and bed because his son wished to come with him on some voyages”, the doctor said. “It has its own access and basic facilities. The captain sleeps in there; the door between is locked and only he has the key to that.”

I have to admit that that surprised me. I thought it rather decent of old Tiberius; most captains in that situation would have taken their first officer's cabin and forced everyone down the chain of command to move. Maybe he was not so bad after all.

“I think that we need to see the scene of the 'crime”, Sherlock said. “Is Mr. van der Walk there now?”

The doctor shook his head.

“After his experience he said he was taking a train and would meet us again in Falmouth”, he said. “So we will be spared his company for part of the voyage at least.”

He did not exactly sound unhappy about that, I observed. The thought quite unbidden arose in my mind that the victim's absence meant Sherlock would be unable to question him. Hmm again.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We got another sharp look from Captain Kirk as we passed him on our way to his usual cabin. A smartly-attired cadet was standing guard outside.

“It's all right, Ensign”, the doctor said. “These gentlemen are allowed in.”

The sailor who was tall and red-headed gave us a look that quite clearly said, _'gentlemen?'_ but stood aside. The doctor led the way inside and Sherlock looked around disapprovingly.

“Has the soap which caused the itching been tested?” he asked. 

The doctor shook his head.

“Mr. van der Walk was so enraged by the attack that he threw it clean out of the porthole”, he said gesturing to the small round window in the opposite wall. “A pity, but it was no doubt that that was what had caused the reaction; I found remains on the soap-dish and there were traces of itching powder in it. He'd had a light breakfast then taken a shower; he came to me half an hour later red all over.”

I looked around the captain's quarters feeling that something was slightly amiss, before it struck me.

“It is very dusty in here?” I said. “Who cleans the place?”

“No-one”, the doctor said. When we looked at him in surprise he explained. “Our 'honoured guest' was adamant about his privacy so it had to stay like this. We were going to have it cleaned once he had left the ship, but Commander Spock insisted that it stay like this until you had seen it.”

I thought perhaps uncharitably that Mr. van der Walk had not been that clean-minded. All that talk about itching was making me want to scratch. Sherlock looked up to a small rotary fan in the ceiling.

“You have air-conditioning on this ship?” he asked.

“We are directly above the engine-room and close to one of the vents”, the doctor explained. “This room and for that matter all the adjoining officers' quarters tend to get very hot, which is good in winter but terrible in summer. It only needs a small amount of power to run the fans.”

Sherlock pulled out a pair of gloves from his pocket then ran his finger along one of the framed pictures on the wall, sniffing at the considerable amount of dust that he had collected. He smiled knowingly.

“Tell me doctor”, he said. “The unpleasant Mr. van der Walk; did he ever cross swords with any of the other men on board?”

“He thought them all way beneath him”, the doctor said scornfully, “and made his feelings clear on that. Not that they minded! Except Lieutenant-Commander Scott, unfortunately for him. He's the chief engineer and Mr. van der Walk considers himself an expert on all such matters. I am sure my medical colleague knows the sort; one of those fellows who _had_ to share his expertise with real professionals!”

I winced. I knew how tetchy some of my colleagues could get when amateurs started telling them their business. I had more than enough trouble with patients who having read some book or other were sure that they had caught some rare tropical disease rather than a common cold or the winter flu. The really persistent ones were told that they were possibly right and then charged a large amount (which I always passed on to one of my charities) for a bottle of sugar-coated vitamin pills in a fancy bottle.

“Any others?” Sherlock asked, smiling at me for some reason.

“As I said he didn't get on with anybody”, the doctor said firmly. “I don't want to press but have you any idea who might've been responsible for the attack?”

“Oh yes.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“You know?” I asked incredulously.

“It seems quite obvious”, he said. “I shall look forward to telling Mr. van der Walk all about it when we meet him at Falmouth.”

Which meant that the bastard was not going to tell us. Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off Whitstable, Kent**

It had been chocolate pudding for dinner. Had been. For those precious few moments that it had been inside of me, I had enjoyed it. I retched up the rest of it down the side of the ship and groaned pitifully.

Someone standing next to me who was totally unaffected by our going up and down almost as much as we were going forward was not helping either.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off the Isle of Thanet, Kent**

I hurled mightily down the side of the ship. Who the hell had thought it to be a good idea to serve spaghetti of all things?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off Rye, Sussex**

The Enterprise was, fortunately, a sail and steam ship so we were using the engines to force our way down the Channel against a strong westerly wind. Doctor McCoy had tried some powders on me but the only food that I seemed able to keep down was some dried biscuits which tasted like cardboard but were at least something. I did not even try the cadets' meat rations, having heard one of them describe it as 'bow-wow mutton' for reasons that I could well guess!

I had a bad moment that day as Sherlock wanted to question Commander Spock about something or other and I most definitely caught the commander eyeing Sherlock's backside as the two of them went into a cabin. I would have hurried to join them, but... no. 

I felt awful!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off Gosport, Hampshire**

I had really liked that fish. On the way down at least.

Thankfully we were entering the relative shelter of the Solent, which meant a brief respite for a few hours. I thought of those tasteless cardboard biscuits and winced. Still, any port in a storm.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Lyme Bay, Dorsetshire**

As if the Good Lord had read my mind, now we had a small storm! I was never more grateful that the ship's engines kept us heading slowly but steadily westwards. Sherlock joined me as I was sat on deck and took my hand. 

“I have been following up another line of inquiry”, he said. “Commander Spock told me something that I had not known namely that Mr. van der Walk is of mixed racial descent, his grandmother being black.”

“Is that relevant?” I wondered.

“It made me inquire into one of the cadets, a Japanese-American fellow called Mr. Hikaru Sulu”, Sherlock said. “He had made some rather questionable remarks about Mr. van der Walk's ancestry, and his room-mate Mr. Chekov told me that their unwanted guest had got wind of them and had complained to Captain Kirk.”

“Motive”, I said standing up.

That was a mistake as my stomach turned again and I only just made it to the side of the ship before I lost the beans that I had had for dinner.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Off Dartmouth, Devonshire**

I could not wait to get off this bloody ship! Sixty-odd yards of rocking misery!

An interesting encounter today however as I saw the normally imperturbable Commander Spock emerging from the captain's room, looking quite ruffled. With a love-bite that he was a fraction too slow to cover up.

_Heigh-ho and a guiding star, for we all know what sailors are!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

**Falmouth, Cornwall**

Mr. George van der Walk most definitely lived down to Doctor McCoy's description of him. He was a small man of about fifty years of age with a screwed up face; I smiled inwardly as for some reason I thought of old Lady Ffarquhar's pug Bowser. This was the mutt's human equivalent.

“Well?” he demanded imperiously. Sherlock smiled.

“I do have some news for you, sir”, he said amiably. “Unfortunately you threw the soap out of the port-hole so we were unable to verify that it was definitely the cause. Doctor McCoy had thought to have found some traces of something in the soap-dish but unfortunately a further test showed them to be caused by the filtration system being used on board. The only slightly unusual thing in his analysis was the amount of vanilla essence which was a little higher than the norm, but that would not of course cause such a reaction in you. Unless.....”

He stopped, deep in thought.

“I have a request to make of you, sir”, he said. “It may seem impertinent but it might help avoid a whole lot of unpleasantness all round, even for yourself.”

“What do you mean, for me?” Mr. van der Walk demanded. “I was the victim here, damnation!”

“I am not disputing that”, Sherlock said soothingly. He took out a small testing-kit from his pocket and placed it on the table before opening it. Our guest went pale.

“I am not giving blood!” he said firmly.

“This is merely an external test”, Sherlock said. “If the paper turns red all will become clear. If not then I am afraid that I cannot help you any further. But either way you will know.”

The man stared at him suspiciously but tentatively held out his hand. Sherlock took a strip of paper and dampened it, then gently dragged it over Mr. van der Walk's open palm before opening up a vial of transparent liquid.

“What is that?” Mr. van der Walk asked suspiciously.

“Enzymic Fluid”, Sherlock said airily. “Another great modern invention. As the name suggests it acts like an enzyme; it exacerbates even the slightest acidity or alkalinity while itself remaining unaffected. 

He dipped the litmus paper in the... stuff. The paper immediately turned dark red.

“Oh.” 

How Sherlock put so much into those two letters, I did not know.

“What do you mean, 'oh'?” Mr. van der Walk demanded.

“You are I have heard something of an engineering expert”, Sherlock said. “Therefore you will have read of the successful employment of anaerobic acid tablets in some older ships' engines.”

I could see both that the fellow had not, and that the chances of him admitting that were about the same as my swimming the Atlantic. Or keeping food down for any length of time on this godforsaken vessel!

“Some stuff”, he said defensively. “Uh, remind me.”

I managed to hide a smile. Just.

“It really is a most amazing discovery”, Sherlock said, “although most unfortunately it only works on the smaller steam engines like the ones on this ship. I have read that neither the increasingly large ocean liners not the new turbine-powered warships can use it, despite the best efforts of all those clever scientists. A small pump is attached to where the coal is stored before being fed into a ship's engines. It sprays the coal beforehand and makes it burn for that much longer. I have read that the efficiency improvement is as much as twenty-three per cent.”

“All right, but I do no see....”

“However”, Sherlock interrupted, “there have been one or two cases of people who have been shown to be susceptible to the substance. To them it brings out the same sort of reaction that young boys achieve through itching-powder. I believe that the evening before your symptoms manifested themselves, you went and talked with Lieutenant-Commander Scott?”

“Yes, I did”, the man admitted. “What of it?”

“That fits perfectly”, Sherlock said. “There is what might be called a 'gestation period' between when the substance makes contact with the body and the eventual reaction. When it happens the effect is quite sudden, which I believe is what you experienced.”

“Oh”, he said.

“My doctor friend here advises me that you should be fine now that the toxins have been flushed through your body”, Sherlock said. “But I would strongly suggest that during your return voyage, you avoid going anywhere near the ship's engines. They do say that second-time reactions are more serious; indeed some say that they might even be fatal although no-one has as far as I know died from such a reaction.” 

He paused dramatically before adding, _“yet.”_

“I see”, he said. “Right.”

Not even a thank-you, I noted as he left us. I grabbed my packed bag – yes, I _was_ that eager to get back onto dry land – while Sherlock went to make our farewells to the captain. 

Lieutenant-Commander Scott was waiting to see us off the ship. 

“I just wanted to say”, he said before stopping. “Er....”

“The words are 'thank' and 'you'”, Sherlock supplied helpfully. “In that order. I might say that you are exceedingly fortunate, young sir. Had Mr. van der Walk been less obnoxious I might have decided to tell him about your cleverly-arranged little prank.”

The tall Scotsman turned bright red.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “He just had an allergic reaction.”

Sherlock smiled.

“There is no such thing as 'anaerobic acid', doctor”, he said. “I made it up, in the certain knowledge that our vain guest would not want to admit his ignorance on the subject. The equally imaginary 'Enzymic Fluid' that I dipped the paper in after testing it on said guest was actually a strong acid that I borrowed from Doctor McCoy.”

I goggled at him. He turned back to the lieutenant-commander.

“I can only hope”, he said, “that you put your undoubted engineering abilities to better uses in future. You will be pleased to know that the captain has had the cabin thoroughly cleaned before your unwelcome guest returned.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Lieutenant-Commander Scott did not take kindly to some upstart jackanapes telling him how to run his engine-room properly”, Sherlock explained. “So he rigged up an apparatus into the cooling fan. Itching-powder was pumped in along with the cool air, and it quickly covered the whole apartment.”

So that was why I had itched in the place!

“He was so full of himself”, the sailor snorted. “The peace and quiet when he was red all over – it was great!”

Sherlock shook his head at him but smiled and escorted me back onto some wonderful dry land. Hallelujah!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As it was around midday when we left the ship I fully expected Sherlock to want to take a train back to his beloved London. Instead however he took me to a large hotel on the sea-front in the Cornish port.

“I thought that you would do better if you had a whole day on dry land before having a rocky train-journey”, he explained. 

I smiled. How considerate of him.

“Besides”, he grinned darkly, “I have had to go for far too long without your delicious body so as not to offend the sensibilities of our American hosts. So I plan to keep you in our room here and have enough sex to make up for that!”

And with that the bastard walked off, leaving me to hold my bag in front of me to avoid.... well, you know what.

Yes you do!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were three days in that hotel. It might have been four. Maybe even five. I lost track of time somewhat.

Twenty-one months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: The ship in this story was sold for scrap in 1909 but the name lived on. At the time of writing (1936) a huge aircraft-carrier is being fitted out to become the fifth American ship to bear the name. It is some four times the length of the vessel that we sailed on and of course infinitely stronger. May King Neptune grant the brave sailors on both vessels the calm seas that he most cruelly denied me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† As of 2020 the ninth U.S.S. Enterprise is under construction and due to launch in 2028 after over a decade of building. It will be about six times the length of the ship in this story. There is also currently an H.M.S. Enterprise, the twelfth ship to sail under that name, an oceanography ship launched in 2002 and about half as big again as the ship in this story._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	9. Case 341: The Adventure Of The Illustrious Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. An illustrious client, or at least a gentleman representing several hundred illustrious clients. The dynamic duo travel to the Isle of Wight to prevent a potential murder and the trip brings back bad memories for Sherlock. But it's John to the rescue, and true loves starts with the ugliest of ugly jumpers!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Many and varied were the people who had sat in that famous fireside chair in Baker Street (which Sherlock had already arranged to purchase from our illustrious landlady and to have moved to our new abode when we left). Tall or short, fat or thin, male or female, young or old, we had seen them all. 

Or at least that was what I had thought. But that cold January morning shortly before my fifty-first birthday I was having to revise that particular opinion.

The middle-aged and slightly rotund fellow wearing a yellow and black striped jumper with the words ‘Bee Happy!’ in black and yellow writing was, I had to admit… different, and considering what we had seen in our long experience, that was some achievement! His name was Mr. Kay Tulling and even with my somewhat limited (as in non-existent) detective skills I had just about been able to guess even before he had told us that he might be a bee-keeper. Not just any bee-keeper but one with an illustrious connection in an illustrious profession.

“I have travelled up from the Isle of Wight today, sirs”, he said, “in the hope that you can help me with a most puzzling case.”

“We will certainly hear your request”, Sherlock said somehow not smiling at the little man who was rather too like a bee for comfort. He even somehow managed a slight buzz when he spoke. I was glad I was not in his direct line of sight so that I was able to hide my own smile, though of course that did not save me from a warning glance courtesy of the resident mind-reader. Some things did not change.

I shifted slightly on my cushion. Quite a few things did not change. _Some annoying bastard's smirk, for one thing!_

“I am what is known as the Royal Bee-Keeper”, our guest said, clearly proud of that fact. “Officially I am merely another gardener to His Majesty but my main duty is to my bees. I work at Osborne House which, as I am sure you are both aware, has been most generously gifted to the nation by the new king.”

I thought wryly that that was the most tactful way of putting it. After poor Prince Albert's untimely death back in 1861 his widow Queen Victoria had spent a large amount of her time at the island house, effectively turning into a mausoleum for the husband who had so unfairly predeceased her by full four decades. There had been reports that she had even ordered his clothes laid out every day, as if expecting his return from The Great Beyond. Little wonder that the son who had rarely seen eye to eye with either parent and whom many felt his mother had blamed at least partly for her husband's death – with some justification it should be said – had been all too eager to rid himself of the place. 

“His Majesty gifted the house to the nation on his Coronation Day”, our visitor said, “and ten of us were transferred from royal employment in order to continue to maintain the house and gardens. However the government now wishes to create a naval college on part of the grounds so they do not need us all.”

“They are sacking you?” I asked, surprised.

“Good Lord no!” he said with a laugh (he even managed a buzz in that exclamation, incredibly). “His Majesty made it _quite_ clear that should anything like this happen then he would take us back into his service and find a place for us somewhere. That was _guaranteed!”_

“I see”, Sherlock said, which was more than I did. “So how may we be of service to you, sir?”

“The bees have told me that someone is about to commit a murder.”

Fortunately many years of writing down many strange things, even if only a few of them came close to matching that statement in its utter bizarreness, prevented me from coughing violently. Sherlock of course took it all in his stride.”

“I am to presume that the bees did not extend to providing the names of either the attacker or the victim?” he asked, as if insect-predicted deaths were a regular occurrence at 221B (they were not).

“Not as such”, our visitor said, “but the day before it happened we had been told that we are to receive two important visitors concerning the establishment of the naval college. Sir Charles Balliol and Admiral Knyvett Hardy.”

I nodded, recognizing both names from my very occasional glancing at the social pages of the 'Times' when I had a spare moment. Sir Charles was in many ways the career politician but committed more to the British Navy that any political party, an attitude that had earned him the respect of the general public but the distrust of his political ‘friends’ (as they say, with friends like that....). Admiral Hardy was from the same stock although not a direct descendant of Nelson’s Hardy, an old sea-dog whose attitude was ‘shoot first, then shoot more later’. He commanded at least as much respect if not fear as Sir Charles. 

“When are these two gentlemen coming, sir?” Sherlock asked, smirking at me for some reason. 

“Next Monday”, our guest said.

“Then we must endeavour to be ready”, Sherlock said. “I have visited the nearby town of Cowes before during their regatta and I am sure that we can find somewhere suitable there for a few days.”

“You will help?” Mr. Tulling asked, clearly surprised.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “Though a city-dweller, apiculture has always been an interest of mine and I hope to have a set of hives when I retire some time in the future. I am at your – and of course your bees’ – disposal.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“You think our guest quite mad, do you not?” my friend asked once our visitor had left with the reassurance that we would be down first thing the next day.

I hesitated. As Sherlock was into bees and such then it behoved me as his partner to be supportive, no matter how far he took things. I did not particularly look forward to having the stinging insects in the cottage's back garden but if Sherlock had decided to keep elephants out there I would have gone along with it (although the villagers might have had a few things to say!). Instead I opted for a slight change of subject.

“I am surprised that if he is the Royal Bee-Keeper, he did not take his bees to another palace”, I said.

Clearly my efforts at avoiding trouble had met with their usual degree of success, namely none. He chuckled.

“It is a good thing that you did not voice that opinion in front of our visitor”, he smiled. “He might have had a fit! Bees move as and when it suits them, and more than one colony had been destroyed by unwise attempts to relocate it. He may be able to take a spare queen in an attempt to establish a second colony but he will keep this one going as long as he can.”

“Do you believe that his bees are psychic?” I asked, doubtfully,

“As Hamlet so rightly said, there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hmm”, I said. “Well if I end up getting stung then it is going to be your fault!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we travelled to Waterloo Station and caught the London & South Western Railway express to Southampton, of course in the same county where my son Ivan (who would be eighteen this year) lived. From the impressive terminus it was a short walk to the ferry for Cowes and a leisurely hour spent cruising down a mercifully calm Southampton Water; King Neptune owed me that at least after my last sea-voyage which had coincidentally taken me past this same island (during which time I had been mostly looking down the sides of the ship rather than sightseeing!). I watched the love of my life leaning over the side of the boat, his hair even wilder than usual and thought how happy I was just now.

Sherlock’s statement that he would find ‘somewhere suitable’ for us to stay at during our time on the island turned out to be true and then some. The house was right on the waterfront in East Cowes (the town was divided by the river Medina but fortunately we were on the same side as Osborne House) and positively palatial. Yet my friend looked strangely uneasy at coming here. I was sure that it could not be the case little of it as there yet was, so I asked him outright.

“This was one of the places that I stayed after 'Reichenbach'”, he said quietly. “After I saw you that time in Piccadilly I knew that I had to keep away from London, before my love for you led me to do something foolish, something that might endanger you. I had that one small matter that I told you about for the unlucky Hawke family – my family – then I came here. Perhaps foolishly I felt that having a stretch of water between us might somehow ease the pain of not having you in my life. It did not.”

Belatedly I got it. We had never had a case on this island yet he had spoken with the bee-keeper of past times there. 

“It brings back unhappy memories?” I asked.

“Of course I was unhappy here”, he said bitterly. “I wanted to be with you; I wanted to tell you that I was alive. I wanted _you_ , John Hamish Watson, body and soul. But I could not put your life in danger just to ease my unhappiness, while there were Moriartys still out there trying to kill one or the other of us.”

“But you saved me”, I said firmly seeing how upset he was by the memories this place had evoked. I took him by the hand and tugged him towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“What?” he asked.

“Like after Cornwall, I want us to make some good memories of this place to replace the bad!” I grinned.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The one odd thing about the place was a series of mast beams, huge poles running the height of the house. There was one in the main bedroom, a huge thing nearly a foot thick between the foot of the bed and the side wall. And I was tied to it!

Sherlock, the sneaky bastard, must have been planning on something like this happening because no sooner had he gotten me naked than he produced a long coil of rope from a cupboard. Even in my excited state I could see this was not the usual coarse type used on ships but much smoother, though probably almost as strong. It certainly bound me to the post and I strained ineffectually at the bonds. He stood a little in front of me and grinned.

“They do say that anticipation is half the pleasure”, he grinned as he slipped off his shoes and slowly removed his jacket. I could see from the sizeable tent in his trousers that he was as aroused as I was but at least he could do something about it.

“I would rather have the other half!” I grumbled as my cock strained against the cock-ring that he had 'just happened to have had in his pocket' and had slipped on me once I was helpless before him. Though as always he had whispered that if I got too uncomfortable with this I merely had to say the word and he would untie me. But I wanted to see how far he could push me so I held back. For now at least.

He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the ground and I groaned again. The bastard was wearing my harness, including the clickable cock-ring. He came over to me and rubbed against my rope-bound form, and I could smell the heady mixture of leather and his manly scent. Scent-marking me was one of his little peccadilloes and not one that I really minded as it made me feel that I belonged to him even more. Having applied himself liberally to me he stood back and began to remove his trousers.

Lord Almighty, he was wearing no underwear! I groaned and strained at the ropes binding me; it was probably my fevered imagination but they seemed to be giving just a little.

I had momentarily taken my mind off of the gorgeous sight in front of me and when I looked back he was naked except for his socks, white and green with bees on them. I would have laughed but then he began to rub his hand along his cock, looking hungrily at me as he did so. I whined; I so wanted to be with him but even if my arms had been free he was just out of reach. 

He jerked himself faster then slowed down for some reason. I stared, then watched as he eased himself onto the bed and began to open himself up, groaning in anticipation of what was to come (him, the lucky bastard!). I felt the want in me surging like a tidal wave, the desperation that I could not reach what I so badly wanted and I growled angrily. He grinned, then sped up his hand movements until he suddenly unclipped the ring and came all over his chest.

With an almighty heave I suddenly freed myself from the restraining ropes and almost flew across the room to where he was lying. I do not think I had ever entered Sherlock quite so fast and it was a good thing that he was as prepared as he was, for even then he grunted before slamming back down onto me. It became a vicious contest, two men fighting for dominance until my befuddled haze cleared enough to remember something. I reached down and managed to unclip the cock-ring that had been holding me back. 

For a moment my only thought was that this was why the French called this _la petite morte_ or the little death. I honestly feared that I had finally overdone it and that I would die inside my lover, even if that was most definitely the way to go when my time was up. Then my body finally managed to get its act together and I came violently, so hard that I nearly pushed myself out in the process. I hung onto Sherlock fervently and he whispered quiet praises and thanks as I sank on top of him, a broken but happy man.

“We had better not do that again”, he said once my heart-rate had returned to normal. “It was a little too much for both of us.”

I was silently grateful that his sentence did not instead end with the word 'you', true as that would have been.

“I love you so much!” I panted grasping him tightly to me as if I was afraid that he might leave for some reason. He eased himself back down onto me and smiled gently. 

“I shall still remember this place”, he smiled. “Only now it will always bring a smile.”

I smiled back at him as I lay there, exhausted but ecstatic.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some time later when I was capable of movement and 'someone' still looked as annoyingly unruffled as ever, we made it to lunch at a rather nice tavern several hundred miles down the street before returning to the house where Mr. Tulling had arranged for a carriage to come from Osborne (an expense I felt a little guilty over as it was barely a mile away, but at least the thing had a padded seat). The man himself met us and – oh Lord, he was wearing another jumper almost identical to the first, except that this one had ‘Bee Serious!’ on it. I do not know why was worse; the fact that he probably had a whole set of the things or the envious look in Sherlock’s eyes which told me that because I was such a wonderful partner my next birthday present for him had already been fixed. As had the increased tackiness content of his already questionable wardrobe back in Baker Street!

I sighed to myself. The things that men do for love!

“Mr. Richard Goodman came down for a pre-visit this morning”, Mr. Tulling said glumly. “The admiral’s secretary or some such; he clearly thinks a good deal of himself. The bees were _not_ impressed.”

“I defer to their judgement”, Sherlock smiled. “Let us adjourn somewhere and we can discuss matters.”

Mr. Tulling took us to his cottage which was small but well-kept. I looked around, half-expecting a swarm of bees to descend without warning. Then again, it was winter.

“The hives are kept between the flower and the herb gardens”, our host explained as we sat down in his small front porch. “Those are the two best sources of food for the bees so it makes sense to have them close at hand. I have tried to persuade the head gardener to plant things more sensibly but he persists in the belief that looks are more important that the livelihoods of the bees.”

 _Most people would agree with him,_ I thought, although I had the good sense not to say it. I could already see our cottage garden ending up as a bee heaven, whatever it looked like. Ah well, if it made Sherlock happy then so 'bee' it.

“Tell us about the planned naval college”, my friend said, shaking his head at me for some reason.

“It is mainly being set up in the stable block”, Mr. Tulling said, “so it should not impinge on the house too much. I would not normally be interested in such things you understand, but anything that touches on the welfare of my bees takes priority.”

“Of course”, Sherlock said gravely.

“As I explained before, five of us are to be re-assigned”, he said. “It is a case of pot luck as to where we may end up thought an actual job is guaranteed, which in this day and age is definitely something. They first told us this some months ago and asked for people who _wanted_ to move, saying that they would get priority or at least an attempt to place them somewhere that they preferred. Only four of us applied so they had to choose one more. That was when the problems began.”

“What sort of problems?” Sherlock asked.

“The head groundsman is a rather hot-headed Scotsman, a Mr. Fergus Colquhoun”, he said. “I had quite expected that what with His Majesty’s Scottish properties he would have been one of the volunteers for a move but he has recently taken up with a local lady so did not. He was not best pleased when it was his name selected from a hat.”

“A random choice?” I asked. He nodded.

“We all wrote our names on a piece of paper and put them in a hat, then the cook Mrs. Barnham drew one out without looking. Oh, we did not include old Mr. Linus, but he is almost blind and getting on in years plus he has spent all his life here. It was agreed that he should be excluded.”

“It all sounds very fair and above-board”, Sherlock said. “But Mr. Colquhoun is unhappy?”

“He keeps muttering that the Royal Navy have no right to come here”, our host said. “I seriously doubt that he would do anything drastic, yet the bees are sure that something is about to happen.”

“Which something we must endeavour to prevent”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that Sir Charles and the Admiral have their own security details, but it would help to know a little more about them.”

“You should visit the Ryde Ladies' Circle, then”, our host said with a smile. “Not only do those ladies knit these absolutely marvellous jumpers but they know everything about everyone in the Navy. I do not know how, but they do.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was almost certainly a coincidence that the Ryde Ladies’ Circle met in the back of a hardware shop and that when Sherlock and I met the three principal members they were seated around something that looked rather too much like a large cauldron. And that they were all wearing black. With somewhat pointy hats. And that there was a black cat sat nearby. And three broomsticks.

I shifted behind Sherlock just in case. _At least his damn smirk was wide enough to hide me!_

“That darling Kay says that you wish to know about a couple of old salts”, the tallest of the three said. “I am Esmeralda by the way, Mrs. Sackville to the locals. These are my friends Jane, Mrs. Belton, and Mary, Mrs. Worsley.”

Sherlock kissed the hands of each of the ladies and sure enough each of them simpered at him. All of them married and Mrs. Sackville had to be at least sixty-five! I gripped my pencil tightly but said nothing.

“Sir Charles Balliol”, Mrs. Sackville said as we all sat down around the not-cauldron. “A most interesting gentleman; if you cut him he would probably bleed sea-water. But not perhaps a _wise_ gentleman.” 

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asked.

“Ships are getting more and more expensive”, Mrs. Worsley said, “and this government like all governments thinks that it can buy more popularity elsewhere. Sir Charles has all the tact of a dreadnought† going full speed ahead.”

“What is a 'dreadnought'?” I asked, puzzled.

“The new type of warship that they are designing”, Mrs. Belton said airily. “It will be a great success when it finally reaches the waves, incredibly fast and far more powerful than anything else afloat. Though not for long of course; that is the way with all technology.”

My head was spinning.

“The prime minister has enough problems on his plate without Sir Charles sounding off about the decline of the British Navy in terms of ship numbers”, Mrs. Sackville said. “But that is not to say that they might murder the fellow. This is England, not _France.”_

The disdain in her last word was palpable. I thought back to our own encounters with governments of various nationalities including our own which had always proven themselves morally vacuous to a large extent. They were pretty much as bad as each other, in my opinion.

“Admiral Hardy on the other hand”, Mrs. Belton said, “is another matter entirely. Many in the government are afraid, with some justification, that if they gave a new and powerful ship to him he might then start a war with someone just because the mood took him!”

“You make him sound quite dangerous”, Sherlock said.

“Danger takes many forms”, Mrs. Sackville said with a knowing smile. “The Admiral is a decent fellow at the end of the day, but even a good man is capable of doing evil for what he may deem a just cause.”

She stared meaningfully at Sherlock, who nodded.

“I see”, he said slowly . “I must thank you ladies for your time in this matter. I hope that we have not disturbed you too much.”

“It has been a pleasure to meet you both”, Mrs. Sackville said. “We wish you well in your endeavours.”

There was regrettably yet more simpering before we made our escape. I did not roll my eyes, much as I was tempted.

Sherlock looked at me. All right, just one eye-roll.

He looked at me again. One-ish?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“After Hamlet, Macbeth!” I muttered once we were safely removed from the three ladies. “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won”, Sherlock followed on. 

“Let us hope this is one battle that we win”, I said fervently. “England needs its navy.”

We took a walk along the seafront in the little town before heading back to our carriage. We passed the town post-office and Sherlock went in to send some messages to London, which was good as it enabled me to double back and call on the ladies a second time. I had a commission for them – a large one.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The next day was Friday. Sherlock received a telegram at the house at breakfast and sighed as he read it.

“Problems?” I asked.

“I telegraphed Luke about our two guests”, he said. “It seems that they have not been on the best of terms lately and this visit is what one might call a forced reconciliation. Some weeks ago the Admiral criticized Sir Charles at a private function over the government not doing enough for the Royal Navy, and of course it got out. Sir Charles responded by publicly referring to 'little Nelsons and their sidekicks who always want to start unnecessary wars'; in short his usual degree of subtlety. The prime minister himself has insisted that they come down here together and sort their differences out.”

“It must have been something to draw in Mr. Balfour”, I said. The current Conservative prime minister was regarded by many including myself as little more than a safe pair of hands whose only good point was that he was better than any of the alternatives on offer. That and he was his predecessor Lord Salisbury's nephew, all but inheriting the post from his uncle. What with both gentlemen being descended from the great William Cecil, it was almost like Elizabethan times!

“Mr. Balfour like all politicians thinks that he can have all the benefits of the Royal Navy without actually spending any money on it”, Sherlock said. “Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you about bee-stings.”

I baulked, not seeing the connection there.

“What about them?” I asked.

“Can they be fatal?” he asked. “It might be just our luck that one of them stings one of our visitors on Monday.”

“Very rarely”, I said. “It is an ongoing area of study like most medicine I suppose but only a very few people are vulnerable. Besides a bee will only sting if it feels endangered. And as Mr. Tulling said, they are all hibernating just now.”

“But a human reaction to them is normally to wave their arms about which is only going to upset them”, Sherlock said. “Could you treat someone who had been stung and had then reacted badly?”

“That would depend on the extent of their reaction”, I said. “You do not think that the bees themselves are going to attempt a murder that they have announced?”

“I think that I would like to talk with our ardent apiculturist”, Sherlock said. “But there is no hurry. We shall see him on Monday before his honoured guests arrive.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We spent a most pleasant weekend in the small town – no more ropes were used but the beams were, as well as several other items that Sherlock had 'just happened' to have brought from London – and on Monday Mr. Tulling again sent the carriage for us. 

Sigh. Today it was 'Bee Inspired!'. Have you any idea how hard it is _not_ to roll one's eyes under such provocation?

Sherlock turned to our host.

“I have heard it said that bees cannot sting a person without dying”, he said, “Is that true?”

“Not completely”, the man said. “Some bees have the sting as a growth of their body so they literally have to rip themselves apart in order to escape. Others like the species that we have here grow the sting separately. But neither will sting unless they feel threatened; even if it is not fatal, growing a new sting takes a great deal of effort. Besides as I said, they are hibernating now.”

We talked amiably for about an hour until our three visitors arrived. The Admiral was much as I had expected, a bluff old sea-dog who somewhat surprisingly was wearing his short-sleeved naval jumper with 'H.M.S. Achilles' on it (I knew that that was part of his image but this was the start of winter and it was damn cold). He was clearly on poor terms with Sir Charles who could have stepped straight out of Whitehall with his perfect black suit and neatly-pressed white shirt. Only the gusty wind in off the Solent blowing everyone's hair into a mess (and Sherlock's into an even worse one!) ruffled his perfect appearance. The third person was presumably Mr. Richard Goodman the Admiral's aide, a short, dark-haired middle-aged fellow who seemed permanently nervous. Then again he had been sat with those two all the way from London so that was perhaps understandable.

Mr. Colquhoun the head groundsman came out to meet our guests and seemed less than pleased to the addition of Sherlock and I to the group, although he said nothing. He was very much as I had imagined him, a red-headed giant of a fellow who could have modelled for the typical Celtic warrior. Mr. Tulling returned to his beloved bees; I wondered at that but I supposed that even hibernating insects needed attention for some reason or other..

All went well until we were walking past the flower garden towards the wood and the beach. The Admiral paused to take a swig from his flask and we continued on a few more steps before it happened. Mr. Goodman suddenly stepped forward and slapped his superior on the arm. The Admiral looked at him in surprise.

“Why'd you do that, Dick?” he asked. Then his eyes glazed over and he slumped to the floor. 

“A bee!” Mr. Goodman snapped as I rushed to the victim's aid. “The Admiral is allergic! I told him not to come here!”

He span round to face Sir Charles.

“This is all your fault, sir!” he said angrily. “You and your silly political points-scoring!”

“This is neither the time nor the place for recriminations”, Sherlock said firmly. “We need to get this man to the house. Unless, doctor, you think that it better to treat him here?”

I had been looking at the Admiral's arm for the bee-sting but it must have fallen out, which I thought a good thing. I was dimly aware that Mr. Tulling had rejoined us and had handed something to Sherlock but was focussed totally on my prone patient.

Who promptly rose to his feet, apparently uninjured. He looked across at Sherlock.

“Thank you, sir”, he said gravely.

“What the....?” I began.

Sherlock had moved round to behind where Sir Charles and Mr. Goodman were standing. The aide was staring at him in shock for my friend had without warning dragged his hands round behind his back and handcuffed him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he protested.

“Attempted murder”, Sherlock said. “A most unique one. Murder by a mock bee-sting is one of the most unconventional methods that I have ever come across.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Admiral here has been aware for some time that there has been a spy in his department”, he said. “Not a foreign one but one placed there by his own government. He quickly reasoned that that man was Mr. Goodman here and set out to entrap him.”

“Lies!” the aide spat out.

“I have to congratulate you, Sir Charles, on your role in all this”, Sherlock said. “It was essential that Mr. Goodman believe that there was a bitter disagreement between the two of you so that you could be forced into a meeting to 'smooth things over'. You arranged for that meeting to be here next to some bee-hives. The Admiral when informed by his aide of the plan casually mentioned that he is strongly allergic to bee-stings, thus offering him a chance to remove a source of irritation for the government.”

Sherlock turned to the aide.

“You told the Admiral that surely the bees would be hibernating but he cleverly countered by saying that he had read a small number of bees in each hive forage in winter”, he said. “None do; they very sagely keep to their hives for warmth. You poisoned the Admiral's flask with something designed to cause the same reaction as a bee-sting. Once you saw him drinking from it you had to make sure that he would be 'stung' soon after. The ring you wore on your finger today has a sharp spike in it and in the confusion afterwards it was easy for you to drop it behind us and push it into the earth with your boot. Unfortunately for you, your plans were known beforehand. I had Mr. Tulling watching you, and he has just handed it back to me.”

The aide groaned and Mr. Colquhoun made short work of dragging him back to the house where two policemen were waiting.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were back in our palatial Cowes home.

“So that was why the Admiral was wearing a short-sleeved top then?” I asked. Sherlock nodded.

“I telegraphed him when I knew his aide would be targeting him”, he said. “He told me of his plan and I offered to help.”

“How did you know that it was him?” I asked.

“The ladies in Ryde told us”, he said as if it were obvious.

“What?”

He tilted his head at me.

“'Even a good man is capable of doing evil', remember?” he said. “A Goodman, called Richard.”

I groaned.

“That reminds me”, he said pointing to a well-wrapped brown paper package next to my bag. “The ladies asked you to visit them yesterday before we left the island. Any particular reason?”

“Oh”, I said. “Yes.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I handed the package over to him.

“It seems only fair”, I muttered. “I can never top what you gave me for your birthday last September, but..... well, I saw how you looked at it. And the ladies had worked flat out to get the first one done in time.”

He looked curiously at the package as if he could somehow see what was inside without opening it. Then he very carefully unwrapped it and extracted the contents. It was a large yellow and black jumper.

“It is lovely”, he smiled. “Thank you.”

“It has writing on it too”, I said still feeling embarrassed. I did not do mushy moments but for Sherlock I would force myself. He unfolded the jumper and held it up against his chest. The inscription on the front was 'Bee Mine!'. 

He looked at me and smiled.

“Always and forever, John”, he said quietly. “Always and forever.”

Twenty months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: In fairness to Mr. Balfour I must record that it later emerged Mr. Goodman's actions were undertaken not at his behest but at that of a senior Cabinet member. There was some pressure on me to not publish this case but when it was made clear that I was going to do so, there was a sudden and _impromptu_ reshuffle, the member in question leaving the government 'to pursue other interests'. He most wisely did not attempt to return, which proves that even governments can occasionally make sensible decisions. Very occasionally.

By the by, Mr. Goodman did not stand trial for attempted murder. While being transported back to Portsmouth by the military police he 'fell over' the side of the boat and drowned. Hmm.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Later a noun for a powerful new type of warship whose steam-turbine engines and massive gun array made it able to outgun and outrun ships only a few years older. The name came from the first, 'H.M.S. Dreadnought' (1906) which took its name from the Elizabethan warship of the same name, the first new large ship whose revolutionary design over three centuries before had helped save England from the Spanish Armada. Mrs. Belton was right in her assessment; even bigger and better super-dreadnoughts soon appeared and the unbeatable, uncatchable ship was scrapped in 1919 after just thirteen years of service._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	10. Interlude: Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. And so it continues.....

_[Narration by General Carlyon Holmes]_

I was never prouder of my (remaining) sons than when they agreed to my brother Sherlock's request to go round to Danny before we got together – all in their uniforms including weapons – and told him that whatever they felt about it, then if their father wanted to stick it to his steward, then said steward should lie back and take it or else! Luckily for them I was proud enough not to tell them that the young horn-dog – who was actually a few months younger than my eldest, Charlie – did most of the sticking!

Four of the boys had stood by me back then, with only young Carl who had been in school at the time not involved. I supposed that that was because dear Anne, to whom I owed so much, had known that taking him out of school would have led to them alerting me. He too had wanted to follow his brothers into the Army and I had had to put my foot down to make him finish his time in school. 

Danny, who is great at reading people, had suggested that Carl was 'like us', although his comment about trading me in for 'the younger model' had so _not_ been appreciated, and I had spent a highly satisfactory weekend trying to fuck the sass out of him. I had of course failed, and at the end what was left of me had agreed to his request that his half-nephew, the irrepressible Benji's second son Billy, might serve as Carl's batman. I had pointed out that it really was not on for me to use my connections in that way, but he had 'persuaded' me. 

I was sure that I would be able to walk again. Some day. Possibly.... oh my Lord, why was he looking at me in that way again? God help me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

God, it seemed, was otherwise engaged at the time of my request!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	11. Case 342: The Adventure Of The War Games ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. In an adventure that will take them to a small town not far from the cottage of their dreams, Sherlock and John ensure that the dice are loaded in favour of a young man who might well be just what the Army needs – if he can be made to believe that.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This tale began at the start of March, with a year and a half still separating us from retirement and that cottage on the Downs. Along with all that lovely sex in those super-reinforced beds that I had on order. I was seriously considering getting a clock made that could count down every second of that time, just to remind us both that it was getting ever closer as well as to reassure John who I was sure still did not fully believe that after all we had gone through, such happiness could be ours. 

However, just before our next case there came an event which reminded me that relationships, like plants, need constant attention.

John and I had been to the theatre shortly after finishing a small and uninteresting case down in the docks. The play concerned the private life and entanglements of a circus strongman and I frankly thought it unbecoming of all those Edwardian 'ladies' to leer at the main actor just because he spent most of the play wearing a skimpy pair of leopard-print shorts and nothing else. Although it did remind me of a similar item of apparel that we had at home and that had not been used for far too long. Hmm....

We waited in our box for the crowds to clear before venturing out, and I noted that John was unusually thoughtful despite the four chocolate slices that I had smuggled in for him. Worse, there was a whole slice left that he had not even touched yet. Something was very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mr. Sorbeaux looked so fine tonight”, he sighed. “It just makes me feel every one of my years.”

Oh, that. John had never liked the fact that he had two and a half years on me in age, but I had noted that whenever he 'rounded a decade' before me he seemed to become that little bit more depressed. I would only reach my fifties a few weeks before we moved to our wonderful cottage in the country. To cap it all my annoying brother Guilford had called round the other day and had joked about me trading John in for a younger model. Fortunately he had had his now fiancée Miss Shepherd with him, and we could always replace Mrs. Rockland's ash-tray after seeing her make such excellent if final use of it. Even better, she had made the dazed dolt apologize before she would let John treat him. Hah!

“That sailor that we just helped”, I said. “He said that he knows someone who runs a tattoo parlour.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“Yes”, he said warily. “What of it?”

“We should go there”, I said. “Rings are all very well but I think we should have something permanent. You will always be in my heart, John, and I think that it is time you were on my body.”

Seriously, that quivering lip was going to get him ravished in a theatre box of he was not careful!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We made it out of the box barely half an hour later, fortunately before anyone came to inquire why we were still there. The tattoo parlour looked safe enough and after some thought we decided to go for each other's initials to be inked on our ankles. Then it was home and to questioning looks from Mrs. Rockland when she saw that we were not wearing socks. Although bearing in mind our normal behaviour in her home (which it was now that Chem and her aunt had retired to Eastbourne to run a bed and breakfast there), perhaps she should have been grateful. 

I did however remember that she was an even better shot than her aunt, so I wisely kept my mouth shut.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our next case involved a small element of past ones in that its location was the Cinque Port limb of Walmington-on-Sea, not far from Eastbourne (and of course a certain cottage!). The gentleman who requested our help was Captain Jack Jones, a soldier who had taken part in the campaigns in the Sudan arriving there not long after my departure from the area in 1886. A thin, worried-looking fellow in his mid-thirties, he had returned to his native Sussex and taken over his ailing father's butcher's shop but it was something else that had brought him to Baker Street that day.

“I don't rightly know if this is your sort of thing, sirs”, he said apologetically, “but I wonder if you might help out a young friend of mine. Name of Master Arthur Wilson; his great-uncle's in the Lords I think.”

I looked expectantly at my resident very occasional reader of the social pages if the newspaper had just happened to have fallen open at them and if he had just happened to have been passing and had just happened to have had a spare half-hour. Sure enough, there was the Pout.

“That must be Lord Holland-Hulme, the Conservative peer”, he said frostily. “His family hails from East Sussex.”

“That's the fellow”, our visitor said. “Young Arthur's entitled to call himself 'The Honourable' but he never does; far too down-to-earth. He's a bit of a dreamer though and something of a lady's man even at just sixteen, but he's got that same something that my commanding officer back in the Sudan, Major Middleton, had. Problem is, he just doesn't believe in himself.”

I looked shrewdly at our guest.

“There is someone else in this”, I said. “Who is it?”

“His friend Mr. Edward Mainwaring”, our visitor said. “A couple of years older at eighteen and much the opposite; he wants to be in the Army but I don't think he has it in him. Unfortunately I can see him getting promoted because he's got the right attitude. I think he resents his friend's noble background a bit, especially as Arthur's parents are pushing him to apply to Harrow. He doesn't want to go by the way; he likes this school over Weston-Super-Mare way.

“It sounds most intriguing”, I told our guest. “I shall have to make some inquiries in London first, but we shall definitely come down to your Walmington-on-Sea, sir. You have our word on that.”

The butcher smiled, clearly relieved.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. “This is way different from dealing with those damn Fuzzy-Wuzzies† in the desert – a bayonet in the right place and well, they did not like it up 'em!”

We both flinched at that image!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After some thought I sent round to our friend Miss St. Leger, deciding that this might be the perfect opportunity to make use of one of her odder interests. Then I braced myself and called in on what was left of my brother Carl.

Danny opened the door to me, smirking far more than any true gentleman ever should. Fortunately Carl was downstairs and half-asleep on the settee, and he looked blearily at me when I explained what I needed.

“You want six of my men?” he asked, confused. “Why? John not enough for you any more?”

I scowled at his attempt at humour. He might do well to remember that I could always drop a large bag of supplies off to his insatiable young lover, who was already looking at him in a way that told me a swift exit was advisable for my own sanity. Although it was enjoyable when Carl caught that look and the most feared soldier in the British Army shook with terror.

“I want them for an exercise to help a client”, I explained, “and it will involve a short break in Sussex for them. A reward for good work, perhaps.”

“I have a few fellows who I can round up”, he yawned. “This weekend?”

“The one after would be better”, I said. “It will be at a place called Walmington-on-Sea, not far from Eastbourne, so they will need to report to Victoria Station on Saturday morning.”

“That reminds me”, Danny said brightly, “remember that story of your mother's about the codebreakers who were promised sex if they could crack a seemingly impossible code? 'Station X', wasn't it?”

Carl had gone pale, and I knew how he felt.

“Send round to me when you have the men”, I said, rising quickly to my feet. “Please try to leave him in one piece, Danny.”

“I shall 'decode' your brother with great care!” the bad boy grinned.

I was barely out of the door when I heard the pleasured moan. Seriously, the young these days!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was still only Monday and as Miss St. Leger had got back to me so quickly I was able to arrange for some advertising to be plastered up around Walmington-on-Sea, announcing that the weekend after next there would be a 'war-gaming session' held at the Town Hall. Anyone who thought that they might have what it took to make a soldier was invited to test themselves against real soldiers in a series of board-game challenges where they would have to make the right decision to stay alive in the game. The wrong one and they could either drop out or try their luck in the next of the six challenges.

The following weekend John and I decamped to Victoria Station where we met the six men provided by Carl, all in their uniforms. The journey via Eastbourne was long enough for me to explain to them just what was entailed, and soon we were drawing into the quiet Sussex resort. It was a small place and very much in the shadow of its larger neighbour around the bay, but it was pleasant enough even if the March winds on the seafront were bracing to say the least.

At the Town Hall they had set up the six challenge areas and it all looked very efficient. We met Captain Jones in the foyer and drew him aside.

“As you can guess, Mr. Mainwaring was up for this at once”, he told us. “Master Wilson was very shy as I knew he'd be, but I managed to persuade him to have a go. What is with the board, sir?”

He looked over to where a large blackboard was displayed by the sixth and final challenge.

“That is where they will record the best three performances at any time”, I said. “It works like this; each challenge is based partly on decisions by the player and partly on luck, which is decided by the throwing of dice. They start each challenge with a number of what are termed 'life point counters'; twelve for the first challenge then one less in each subsequent one. If they ever lose them all then that is where they finish.”

“Mr. Mainwaring is convinced he will be first overall”, the captain sighed. “Here he comes now, and Master Wilson with him.”

I looked to where two young fellows had entered the Hall. The elder had to be Captain Mainwaring, and even in my long career I had rarely seen someone with so much consequence in themselves (yes, even with my brothers!). His friend Master Wilson was as the captain had said a couple of years younger but taller and, admittedly, did indeed look something of a dreamer. I wondered if he really was what the Army needed but told myself that the captain had much more experience of that sort of thing than either of us did. Besides I knew just how irritated both I and John got when 'experts' (i.e. people who had read a book on the subject) tried to tell us what to do in our own fields of knowledge.

Each challenge took about a quarter of an hour and there was already a small queue, but thanks to Miss St. Leger I had arranged for a small area to be set aside serving coffee and biscuits to those who were waiting. It was not long before Mr. Mainwaring stepped up to the first challenge, and sat opposite young Private Smith. I smiled covertly.

The young man survived the first challenge but only just, with but two of his twelve counters remaining. He was frowning deeply as he moved on to the second challenge while his friend took his place. Sure enough, Mr. Mainwaring failed the second challenge and with the four people before him all having gone further his score was not even posted (it must have been especially galling for him as one of those ahead of his was a lady). Mr. Wilson on the other hand sailed through the first challenge and was able to proceed.

“That was lucky”, Captain Jones said.

I looked pointedly at him. He stared back at me for some little time before he got it.

“Not luck?” he asked. 

I nodded.

“The dice that the privates used for those two gentlemen were weighted”, I explained. “In favour of Mr. Wilson and against Mr. Mainwaring.”

“Surely that is unfair, sir?” he asked.

“Do they not say that all is fair in love and war?” I countered.

“Good point, sir”, he smiled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Master Arthur Wilson cleared all six challenges very evidently to his own surprise, and his score posted at the top of the table remained unbeaten all weekend. At the end of the event the organizers posted the top twenty scores; Mr. Mainwaring's was not even among them.

As I said, all is fair in love and war. Because after I had shown just how widely I defined that 'all', poor John had to be helped to the carriage at Walmington Station when we left, because Danny had generously given me that spare soldier's cap and I had seen no reason not to use it. Very thoroughly!

Eighteen months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Allies to the Mahdist rebels, so called for their short haircuts._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	12. Case 343: The Adventure Of Greyminster Abbey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. An irreplaceable mediaeval document is stolen – can Sherlock recover it and thus save a nobleman from both social disgrace and financial ruin?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Being the partner of the greatest (if not the most modest!) detective ever to walk the earth meant that I got to see all sorts of strange and exotic locations. Admittedly I often got to see them while being barely able to sit down and having to endure some of the worst episodes of smirking in recorded history (and from someone who has the brass neck to say that he does not like people who smirk too much!), but I certainly travelled much more than another other doctor of my ilk would have done. 

On the other hand Sherlock preferred very much to stay in London if at all possible and our main venture abroad had been at least partially forced by circumstance, and even if one outcome of that trip had been a level of happiness that I had not thought possible I had been glad to return to our dear rooms in Baker Street. But I certainly got to see many parts of the island of Britain which I would otherwise have missed which was why we were currently in rural Gloucestershire. 

Sort of. 

I mentioned in the Priory School case that that was our sole case in Rutlandshire and that we had at one time or another undertaken cases in each of the counties of England. I also mentioned that this applied both past and present as by a strange coincidence this and the next case were to take place in the two ancient counties, Winchcombeshire and Hexhamshire, that had been lost to the map of England over time. 

The changing face of our country is also reflected in the title of this story. Greyminster which lies about eight miles east of Cheltenham and was once the largest town in the area, doubtless one of the reasons for the ephemeral existence ( _circa_ 1007-1017) of the county of Winchcombeshire. The county town Winchcombe lies some short distance to the north and is now little more than a village. The area had long retained a perhaps surprising degree of autonomy even under the powerful Mercian kings of the eighth century – it is conjectured that one of their later dynasties came from here – and was of course important for the wool trade. 

Unfortunately as things turned out Greyminster's wealth was also heavily dependent on the abbey that gave it its name, and when that duly fell victim to the monstrous King Henry the Eighth in 1538 the once-great town declined, people moving away to Cheltenham, Gloucester or Oxford. By the start of the twentieth century what had been the tenth-largest town in England at the time of the Domesday Book (the 1080's) had been reduced to little more than a village. Indeed when the railway had been built between Banbury and Cheltenham some years before when this story is set, once-mighty Greyminster had not even merited a consideration, the nearest station being at Notgrove about two miles to the south. 

We had come to this part of the beautiful Cotswolds at the urgent request of Cuthbert, nineteenth Duke of Greyminster, whose telegram had arrived at Baker Street late the previous night. His title had been created in 1503 ironically not long before the loss of the town's abbey, and his family's support for parliament in what had been a predominantly Royalist area in the English Civil War had seen Greyminster Abbey (confusingly also the name of the great house built from the ruins of the old abbey) besieged for six months at one point before it had been relieved during the events surrounding the Siege of Gloucester in 1643, a minor skirmish being fought just to the north of it Royalist troops had tried to prevent the Earl of Essex from relieving the cathedral city. The family had lost some lands at the Restoration but were still a powerful force, both locally and nationally. The duke sat in the House of Lords as a Tory peer and was renowned for speaking his mind most forcibly, even against his own party when he felt that they were in the wrong (something more politicians should do a lot more often, in my opinion). 

I asked Sherlock if the duke had offered any reasons for his apparent urgency, but he shook his head.

“The only hint he dropped was that it may have something to do with the Greyminster Library, which he is currently establishing in London”, he said frowning as our carriage bounced along a dusty country lane. It was April but showers had been considerably lacking as of late and the countryside looked parched. “One might deduce that the matter is indeed urgent if he did not feel he could trust the telegraphic system.”

“I have read about his library”, I said. “It sounds a most philanthropic venture, if an expensive one.”

“The family are reported to have done particularly well in their investments in South African gold mines”, Sherlock said, “so one supposes that with the Boer War finally over, that source of income is now secure. Do those social pages that you never read in the 'Times' perchance tell us anything more?”

I pou.... scowled at him, and he gave me an injured look in return. 

“There was speculation that the Duke is setting up the library partly because he has fallen out with his eldest son and heir, Edgar de Grey”, I said, still sulking a little at his snipe at my very occasional pastime. “He has one other son, a boy called Alfred, and a daughter Edwina. Not forgetting his mother the dowager Duchess Deirdre who lives in the Dower House on the estate.”

He looked set to remark on my reading habits again but I shot him a warning look and he just sniggered instead. _Which was just as bad!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Greyminster Abbey was a fine old building and I could see the Elizabethan design in it even though I knew that it had been partly destroyed by a fire early in the last century. The then fourteenth duke, Gerald, had been something of a rake and had lost much of his ancestral lands at the gaming-tables such that his death in that fire had seemed quite providential. Indeed there had been some suspicion that his brother and successor St. George (the current duke's great-grandfather) may have been involved in dispatching his sibling into the next world before his time, but as he had then proceeded to repair most of the damage done to the estate in his subsequent forty-year tenure of the dukedom, people tended not to comment on such insignificant little details. 

For some reason I felt inclined to dwell on the thought of dispatching annoying elder siblings (cough, lounge-lizards, cough). It was a good thing that I knew so much from my only brief glances at those social pages (this morning's had been barely of any interest at all). 

Duke Cuthbert was a fine old gentleman of about fifty-five years of age, clearly not in the best of health as he greeted us from a bath-chair and was wrapped heavily in blankets. His attendant nurse gave us both a mighty scowl when he dismissed her before talking to us and I wondered if she might stoop to listening at the door. She looked the sort.

“Thank you for coming in answer to my poor request, gentleman”, he said.

“You were somewhat vague in that request, sir”, Sherlock said, a little reprovingly. “Was there a reason for that?”

“Indeed there was”, the duke said heavily. “I have lost something of great value, and I am threatened with social and possibly even financial ruin unless I can recover it.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I am sure that I do not have to tell you about the famous and renowned Magna Carta”, the duke began once we had partaken of drinks and cakes (how Sherlock managed to get the cream from that doughnut onto his nose the Good Lord alone knew; I passed the grub my handkerchief to wipe it off). “That famous document now exists in four copies held in various places around our great Nation. You may however not know that when it was originally drawn up it was known simply as ‘The Charter’. Once the invasion of the French Prince Louis had been defeated, the barons re-issued the document along with an additional set of restrictions on the royal prerogative, curbing any further abuses of forest laws.”

_(History as a subject interested me in some parts more than others, and the royal forests were one of the areas that appealed to me because so few people properly understood them. 'Forest’ in the Middle Ages was defined differently to today, then describing a protected wild area comprising different habitats that included trees but was mostly open ground. From that dark year of 1066 onwards the rights of free men to access these areas for fuel and for the grazing of their animals had been harshly curtailed by the Norman and Plantagenet kings, and brutal punishments had been imposed for any who were caught breaking the law – as in 'bits lopped off' brutal. Worse, the definition of just what was a royal forest had been greatly extended, a process known as afforestation. The 'add-on' charter which features in this story set things to rights thanks to the efforts of that great nobleman William Marshall, without whom the Plantagenet dynasty would surely have foundered in those dark days; a smart move on his part as it won over several barons and could not be countermanded by the boy-king Henry the Third. Who unfortunately they grew up to be a complete idiot._

_See? It was not just the social pages that I read. And Sherlock really needed to get something for that cough!)._

“It is a copy of that second charter”, the duke went on, “the Charter of the Forest or the ‘Parva Carta’ as the newspapers called it, that was discovered last year in the vaults of a house in Buckingham. It is the first version re-issued and dated to 1225, in very good condition for its great age. By a stroke of great good fortune the owner of that house who had just died was an uncle of mine through marriage whom I had once assisted financially when family closer to him had refused to help, and he had very generously bequeathed the precious item to me. Naturally my first thought was to add it to my planned collection in London.”

I wondered immediately just how annoyed that gentlemen's family had been at missing out in such a windfall as this ancient charter. Annoyed enough to have someone steal it, perhaps?

“I might speculate that your sons offered their opinions as to that course of action?” Sherlock ventured, shaking his head at me for some reason. 

The duke smiled.

“Alfred was all for housing it in the library as what he termed 'a crowd-puller'”, he said, “but Edgar wanted to sell it and use the money to pay for a complete refurbishment of the Abbey. Like most so-called 'great landowners', I have mostly moved out of land as it is currently a poor investment. The house does need some work but nothing that I cannot fund through my current income sources.”

“But now the charter had disappeared?” Sherlock asked.

“That is not the worst of it!” the duke groaned. “The Greyminster Library opens in London at the end of next week and the Princess of Wales herself is cutting the ribbon. The press will have a field-day when they discover that the prize exhibit is a very empty glass case!”

“When did the charter disappear?” Sherlock asked.

“Last night sometime”, the duke said. “The last time that I definitely had it was just before dinner at seven o' clock; I had been examining it when the gong sounded. After dinner we adjourned for coffee and at just before nine I went for one final look. You can imagine my horror when I found the document gone.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together. 

“Who was in the house at the time?” he asked.

“Myself, my two sons, my daughter Edwina and her fiancé Mr. Nicholas Bolles”, the duke said. “I have to say that I do not really approve of their relationship especially as he is some nine years her senior but I suppose that that is the way of the world nowadays, and they have been together for nearly a year. The staff were all down in the kitchens except for the maids who brought up the food.”

I was sure that there was no physical reaction from Sherlock yet I somehow knew that my friend had found something in that run of facts. Maybe I was becoming a mind-reader too?

“That fact may be important”, Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly for some reason. “Please tell me more about Miss de Grey and Mr. Bolles.”

“I was fortunate enough to be blessed with three children”, the duke said, “before my wife died during an unsuccessful fourth pregnancy. I was therefore left to raise them on my own although I have been quite fortunate to have my mother's help.”

I thought of the dowager Duchess Deirdre, a most formidable _grande dame_ just turned eighty yet still very active on the social scene whenever the duke came to London. I had met her the one time – as if you have to ask; yes, she had simpered at Sherlock! – and she had all but sniggered at my sudden coughing-fit whispering 'lucky devil!' to me before sailing off to terrorize someone else. I had the distinct feeling that she might, just might tend to be a strict surrogate parent. As in the ocean might, just might tend to be wet!

“Edwina is nineteen and quite determined when it comes to getting her own way”, the duke continued. “She is what might politely be referred to as not exactly intellectual and has showed absolutely no interest in the charter whatsoever. Her fiancé however has a keen interest in history. He is originally from Germany and there is something in him that makes me not quite trust the fellow. Although he is a historian and was able to authenticate the charter for me, I took the precaution of obtaining a second opinion as well.”

 _A daughter who is 'not exactly intellectual',_ I thought wryly. _As in 'unintelligent when compared to a basic sweeping implement'._

“Then we have your two sons”, Sherlock said, giving me a disapproving look. “Tell me a little about them if you please.”

“Edgar is twenty-two and, sorry though I am to say it, something of a rake”, the duke said with a sigh. “Rather too many young gentlemen these days seem to think that the world owes them a living and the idea of them actually working for an honest crust is to them an alien concept. He was most unhappy when last year I insisted that he spend six months working on the estate, including doing farm labour. Showing his usual lack of judgement he went and complained to my mother, who promptly upped it to nine months!”

“Insisted?” I asked. The duke nodded.

“The title is hereditary”, he explained, “but the actual estate itself only has to go to someone of the blood lineage. If I were so inclined I could leave it to any one of my children or split it between them. I would be disinclined to disinherit my eldest son but I would do so for the good of the estate.”

I thought to myself that his offspring would privately hate him for having that hold over them all, but said nothing. I supposed that such a system at least avoided someone totally unsuitable getting hold of all that money.

“Alfred is a year younger than his brother”, the duke went on. “Physically he is very different; Edgar is short and rather unfit while his brother is very athletic and, perhaps, a little too proud of his own appearance. But then we all have our weaknesses.”

I drew a quick rasher of bacon in the margin of my notes. Sherlock, who could not possibly have seen them from where he was sitting, gave me yet another look. I was going to start using him to bet on the horses if this kept up!

“You say that you spent time before dinner looking at the charter”, he said, again, shaking his head in a way that was downright annoying. “Does that not run the risk of damaging it?”

“I was unclear over that”, the duke admitted. “I have had the thing transcribed into Modern English and it was the copy that I was examining; it is kept in the adjoining case. I am not a professional historian but I enjoy seeing how things have developed over time.”

“I must also ask you a somewhat personal question, I am afraid”, Sherlock said. “You mentioned Mr. Bolles whom your daughter is seeing. Are either of your sons currently seeing anyone?”

The duke looked surprised at the question but answered readily enough.

“It may be cruel to say it but I rather think that my eldest son is waiting for me to quit this earthly realm so he can have the estate to counter his innate lack of personal appeal”, he said bluntly. “Alfred is currently dating Lord Winchcombe's youngest, a girl named Brilliana of all things! But a good girl despite that.”

Sherlock nodded and thought for some little time.

“Was the charter insured?” he asked at last.

“That is another thing”, the duke sighed. “It is of course irreplaceable but I did insure it with the Royal Mercian Insurance Company for ten thousand pounds, and I have only made a few payments in the short time that it has been in my possession. Naturally they will be far from happy when they receive the telegram that I sent them yesterday informing them of its disappearance, and someone as skilled as yourself, sir, can well imagine what the newspapers will make of that once they get hold of it. Can you help me at all?”

“I am not sure”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I am concerned that even as we speak, the charter may have already been damaged.”

“Damaged?” the duke asked, clearly shocked. “Why?”

“Not deliberately”, Sherlock clarified. “But we are dealing here with a piece of parchment that is approaching seven centuries old. It would not take kindly to being folded even once in its now fragile state, which one presumes would have had to occur before it could have been removed undetected from the house.”

“But do you know who has it?” the duke asked.

“Of course.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“That part is fairly obvious”, he said calmly. “But as so often, retrieving the item and effecting justice – that will be a little harder.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock wanted to take a look at the glass case that had housed the charter so we went off to the study. The case had a lock on it but unfortunately the duke had not used that as the house was locked up at the time and he had thought it safe. I could see the insurance company rubbing their hands at that and using it as an excuse not to pay out – _if_ anyone told them that little detail of course.

My friend examined the empty case in silence although I caught a very slight twitch of the lips which told me had either seen or deduced something. Whatever that was he did not tell me, much to my annoyance. He did however ask for a footman to take a telegram that he wanted sent to his brother Randall in London. I wondered if he would get any help from the pest; the lounge-lizard was still sulking from last month when Sherlock had frustrated his efforts to prevent his wife from being granted security clearance, which meant that she could now attend all the social events that he had hitherto used for his philandering. 

Oh dear how sad never mind.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Greyminster Abbey was a long building with two wings either side that must have been nearly a quarter of a mile apart, and fortunately all the family rooms were in one wing while the guest bedrooms were in the other. My room adjoined Sherlock's and they both had four-poster beds in as well as some very dark furniture. I sighed as I opened my bag, checking that my gun was fully loaded and....

Holy shit! 

Sherlock must have got at my bag before we had left Baker Street that morning, because folded neatly underneath my revolver was my favourite pair of black lace panties, the ones that Sherlock had got me for my birthday a few months back. They were a size larger than my old ones – all those Baker Street breakfasts took their toll despite the absence of at least half my bacon and the frequent 'workouts' that I got from my beloved – and these lacy little things even had a little pink bow on them. I gulped but dutifully undressed and held them out to look at them. I was just running my finger round the waistband when......

“Hullo John!”

The Voice! I gulped and turned slowly round. The sheer ridiculousness of a fifty-one-year-old man standing in a bedroom holding a pair of lace panties probably should have bothered me but there was not enough blood being supplied to my brain to care at that precise moment in time. Well that and the fact that Sherlock was wearing that damn sexy waistcoat of his and fully clothed except for the formidable erection that he was palming while looking at me like a starving dog eyeing up a juicy steak.

I do not remember how but somehow my limbs managed the complicated task of getting out of my clothes, into his choice of underwear and onto the bed sprawled out ready for him. The feral look in his eyes both terrified and aroused me and I was panting as he clambered up between my legs.

“It is appropriate that this case involves Magna Carta”, he growled beginning to finger me open with his usual efficiency. “That was a fairly minor document which history endowed with far greater meaning that any of its authors had intended merely because it was the first time that the power of a ruling monarch had been successfully challenged.”

That wasn't the only think being challenged I thought acidly. He was brushing lightly against my prostate making me writhe in anticipation.

“Then, of course, we have that other historical inaccuracy”, he said, slowly widening me and making me arch my back in anticipation. “ _Droit de seigneur_. Literally the right of the lord, in this case to take the virginity of any of his serf's daughters. We have no proof that such a thing existed yet it is in all the history books.”

His fingers withdrew and I almost cried with relief when I felt him push aside my panties and his cock start nuzzling my entrance. Then to my absolute horror he stopped with his head barely inside me.

“I wonder if I should take _your_ virginity, John”, he mused. “Perhaps I should make you wait a while longer.....”

I had nothing like Sherlock's flexibility at times like this but desperation gave me strength. I already had my hands on his hips and I forcibly impaled myself onto his cock, much to his evident surprise. The bastard then just grinned, forcing me to do all the work as I dragged him inside me, panting with the exertion. Never mind _droit de seigneur_ ; it was going to be a case of _la morte d'amour_ if this went on much longer. I needed him to finish what he had started and quick!

Only when he was fully seated inside me did Sherlock finally take control, pushing me back even further and finding the perfect angle to assault my poor prostate. I whined in delirium and he snarled in return, both of us racing to orgasm. In fact we got there at one and the same time, my overwhelmed senses having to cope with Sherlock coming inside of me and one of the best orgasms that my poor broken body had ever experienced. I let out a satisfied grunt as Sherlock wiped us both off and then snuggled in behind me.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The next day started uneventfully enough, apart from a wake-up call courtesy of some insatiable blue-eyed sex-maniac that resulted in me having to come downstairs quite gingerly (why did my bedroom have to be on the second floor and the staircases so damn long?). The duke asked me if I had had a rough night but I denied it, even if he was all too right. And I wished that 'someone' could turn that smirk down to below ten!

A telegram came for Sherlock mid-morning and he seemed pleased enough with the contents although he did not share them with me. Not even when I scowled my displeasure! Mr. Bolles left for London after lunch and Edgar de Grey drove him to Notgrove Station before himself travelling on to Gloucester. I was a little uneasy about them both leaving the house but Sherlock seemed unworried, so I supposed that it was all right. 

It was about an hour after the two men had departed that we had a visitor. It was a local police constable, depressingly young (they all were nowadays and I was resigned to that fact). He came into the main room where we were both sat and greeted Sherlock.

“Constable Berkeley”, Sherlock smiled. “Welcome. Did you get it?”

“Yes, sir”, the constable smiled. “Had to wait a bit at the station so they could box it up for me good and proper, though. It looked like rain and I didn't want to risk it getting wet.”

“Risk what getting wet?” I asked confused. Duke Cuthbert, his daughter and his youngest son had joined us and they all looked equally nonplussed which made me feel a little better.

“The box that is currently being brought into the Abbey contains a certain document recently taken from this house”, Sherlock said. “Your suspicions were quite correct, Your Grace. Mr. Bolles had decided to relieve you of your historical artefact, sell it and make a new life for himself abroad. I am sorry to say, Miss de Grey, the fact that he only started paying court to you just days after the charter came into your father's possession was _not_ a coincidence.”

Miss de Grey bit back a sob and her brother moved swiftly to comfort her.

“Well!” the duke said heavily. “The rat!”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “Doubtless he will have a fair amount of time in a prison cell to consider the foolishness of his actions. The doctor and I must regretfully leave for London soon but I would be grateful if, your men having safely unpacked the charter, we might see the document that has caused your recent troubles?”

“Of course”, the duke said. “Alfred, kindly take Edwina to her room, please.”

The younger de Grey led his sister away pausing only to look curiously back at Sherlock. I wondered why.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock thanked the constable for his care with the precious document and the duke tipped him most generously before he left. We ourselves had at least two hours to examine the charter before we had to leave to make the last train to connect at Kingham Junction for London. The document was I thought virtually incomprehensible, not helped by the fact that in those far-off days they had written legal matters in short form. 'Someone', of course, could read it straight off without looking at the modern translation. Show-off!

We had not been there long when the door opened and Alfred de Grey entered.

“I thought that I had better come”, he said, looking somewhat shame-faced for some reason.

“It is well that you did”, Sherlock said, quite sharply I thought. “Your behaviour has been rather questionable, young sir.”

“But necessary”, the young man insisted.

“What is going on?” I asked, puzzled. Sherlock turned to me.

“There was rather more to Mr. Bolles that met the eye”, he explained. “Mr. Alfred here suspected quickly enough that his attentions towards his sister may have been opportune. He did not initially suspect theft as the eventual aim until he did some research, and discovered that as well as Mr. Bolles there was also a _Mrs._ Bolles.”

“What?” I exclaimed, turning to the young man. “Why did you not say?”

“Can you imagine my poor sister's embarrassment?” the young man muttered, flushing bright red. “She has never had a serious gentleman friend in her life, and to then be wooed by a married man hiding that fact and only interested in her as a means to theft? I only found out for sure about four months back.”

“Since he could obviously not marry Miss Edwina legally his target was likely the charter”, Sherlock agreed. “Mr. Alfred laid his plans well. He had a copy of the document made and living as he did in the house, it was easy to effect a substitution. He knew that his father always looked closely at the copy, and only rarely at the original. He also knew that his prey was paying a visit soon and was away on a trip soon after, excellent cover for being able to slip out of the country with the thing. After all, Mr. Bolles had no reason to check what he assumed was the real charter when taking it.”

Alfred de Grey nodded.

“The real charter is in my room”, he admitted. “I was dreading having to find a way to arrange its reappearance.”

“Wait a minute”, I said, spotting something. “That means that Mr. Bolles has been falsely arrested!”

“Not really”, Sherlock said. “Theft is still theft, whether of a document six and a half centuries or six and a half weeks old. We should also not forget that any time he serves in jail will be more than deserved, bearing in mind his intentions and the foul way that he misused poor Miss Edwina.”

I could not but agree. 

“You said that the copy was almost perfect”, Alfred de Grey put in. “What is wrong with it?”

“I happen to know the forger whom you used for the copy”, Sherlock smiled. “He told me the secrets of his trade after I had helped save him from a matter that could well have ended for him at the gallows. When he gave you the copy he told you that he had placed a certain mark in a certain letter in the document which, while to the untrained eye might look like an ink-blot caused by a careless monk transcribing the original, shows itself under close examination to be something else. He always places those on any copy he does so that the owner at least can be assured which is which.”

 _Of course_ , I thought. Archie Stamford the Farnham Forger, who Sherlock had saved from his devious daughter.

Seventeen months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Bolles would serve four years for the theft of a fake item and when finished would have the belated good manners to remove himself from English soil. At the start of 1914 Alfred de Grey, then married with three sons, was badly injured in a road traffic accident that claimed the life of his father. His elder brother Edgar became the twentieth duke but did not have long to enjoy his title, enlisting in the Great War and dying in the trenches before the year was out. Duke Alfred duly inherited and soon emulated his late father as a prominent speaker in the House of Lords. His sister never married and still lives on the estate. The Dowager Duchess Deirdre passed shortly after her one hundredth birthday so has probably finished setting Heaven to rights by now – if she is not actually running it!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	13. Case 344: The Adventure Of Mr. Fairdale Hobbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. It is said that the scope of humanity is, like the old hymn, deep and wide – and a former co-tenant of 221B whom the great detective and his friend had not thought to see again proves that for a fact.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This 'case' comes to memory because of the unusual dual setting, starting from right inside our own dear 221B Baker Street and ending on the Scottish border not far from my own birthplace in distant Northumberland. And across both those settings bestrode the diminutive figure of Mr. Fairdale Hobbs who at my time of publishing this tale (1936) had along with the other key character in this story emigrated to the wilds of the Canadian west. However thanks to the efficiency of the modern telegraph system I was able to reach him with a message asking if I could add this affair to the Sherlock canon and much to my surprise he – and his 'partner' – said yes. I advise the readers to brace themselves for this particular adventure, the outcome of which shocked me mightily!

As I have mentioned elsewhere 221B was divided into a number of living areas, one for the house owners Mr. and Mrs. Rockland and one each for their six sets of tenants. The rooms were scattered throughout the house which was why we rarely had any interaction with our co-tenants except occasionally for the occupant of Number Four whose door those coming to and leaving our rooms had to pass near. Indeed, quite some years back a lady had taken a three-month tenancy of that room solely because she had wanted Sherlock to investigate her case and had been sure that her living in the same house would _guarantee_ his acceptance. I will not embarrass the socially elevated lady who found that her arrogant attitude landed her a lot of expense and no help whatsoever!

For some eight years until quite recently the occupant of Number Four had been one Mr. Fairdale Hobbs, a short (barely five foot tall) and unremarkable single gentleman in his thirties whom I only remember because of his boyish blond curly hair which was almost as untidy as Sherlock's thatch – although to be fair what he lacked in physical attributes our nearest neighbour more than made up for by his wonderfully selective hearing! Ever since the dreadful days of Professor Moriarty, Sherlock had ensured that Miss St. Leger 'vetted' all tenants of the house beforehand so I knew that he was indeed as harmless as he looked.

The reason for our co-tenant's departure from Baker Street had been an unexpected inheritance; of course we heard all the details from our landlady who like her aunt knew far too much of everyone else’s business. Mr. Hobbs's sudden wealth came from an unmarried cousin of whom he had barely been aware until the fellow had decided to quit this mortal realm on New Year's Day and leave his entire estate to his distant relative. To wit a considerable number of financial investments, a lead mine, two farms, a forest, a ruined peel tower and a house in the Allen Valley, all in Northumberland but quite some distance from my own home town of Belford.

My home county has at least four very distinct cultures within its borders. As well as my brother Stevie's Berwick-on-Tweed and Newcastle-upon-Tyne at either end of its long coast, there was also a division between the bulk of the rural areas in the east and north, and the south-western reaches that had in the twelfth century been made a county in its own right called Hexhamshire. This area had enjoyed an independent existence for some four centuries before being folded back into Northumberland in 1572. It possessed a similar Borderer culture to my home town area but there were also definite differences. It is one of those parts of the country accurately described as 'out of the way'; one did not really pass through it on the way to anywhere so it was relatively quiet. And all the better for it I suspect, in this increasingly fast-paced world.

To answer a question posed by more than one reader, the suffix 'shire' was much more widely used in the past and three areas in Northumberland had until 1844 (just eight years before I was born) held it, being technically part of the neighbouring county of Durham until then. These were Bedlingtonshire in the south including some of the once critical Northumbrian coal-fields there, Islandshire which included my home town of Belford as well as Tweedmouth and the famous Holy Island, and adjoining Norhamshire, the Border area around Norham and Cornhill-on-Tweed. Hence when I said that Sherlock and I had solved cases in every English county I was speaking the truth; I had not said 'every single shire' as _that_ would not have been arguably incorrect.

_'Someone' is going to roll those pretty blue eyes right out of his head one of these days!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Fairdale Hobbs departed our lives (such as he was ever in them) in the second week in January; I believe that there was some relative who had contested his right to inherit but then withdrew. At the time I barely noticed his going what with Sherlock's cases and my increasing thoughts – mostly very happy horizontal ones – for our retirement the following year. We would doubtless not have even thought of our vanished neighbour ever again had it not been for the arrival in 221B of one Mrs. Gwendolyn Sutherland. This lady was announced by Mrs. Rockland one fine May morning, an unfortunate time to call on us as Sherlock had used the paddle the night before and I needed both a rubber ring and a cushion before I could sit down. Even moving my head to acknowledge our visitor caused a burst of pain to run the length of my body and my eyes to start watering.

It was _gloriously_ agonizing!

Mrs. Sutherland was a frail-looking lady of about fifty years of age, rather unfortunately dressed in that terrible Victorian shade of mauve and clearly overawed at just being here. It very rapidly became clear that she was probably too timorous to inform us as to the reason for her visit any time soon. Fortunately I had Sherlock, extractor of information and far too many simpering looks from females – and males, damnation! – across the globe.

“It must be a grave business that causes you to call on us and break such a long journey near its conclusion, madam”, he said politely.

Mrs. Sutherland looked most alarmed at his perspicacity and he hastened to reassure her.

“Your ticket is a ladies' compartment through return issued by the North Eastern Railway Company, which means that you began your journey in the North”, he said. “It has been clipped three times which further implies that you took a slow train to connect with the London express; hence the North Eastern branch, North Eastern main line and the Great Northern main line conductors all clipped it. You also bear in your hand one of the North Eastern's luggage slips which means that you have sent your bags on. Judging from the time you must have caught the one of the first trains of the day to King's Cross and the lack of any bag indicates that you plan to reach your destination tonight, while the time indicates that your final destination cannot be that far from London. Yet near the end of such a great trek you have chosen to call on us. May we know why?”

I do not think that I have ever met anyone who could resist that azure gaze and Mrs. Sutherland lasted less than five seconds before bursting into speech.

“I am bound from my old home in Hexham, Northumberland to my sister's house in Dartford, in Kent”, she babbled. “I arranged everything months ago but the past few weeks.... sirs, I am scared!”

“What has scared you, pray?” Sherlock asked patiently. She took a deep breath.

“As well as my sister Catherine I have a brother Henry, her twin, who emigrated to New Zealand some years back”, she said. “Most of his family went with him but his youngest son Levi chose to stay here. We did not see each other very often as he is steward for a considerable estate that until recently was the property of a widower, a Mr. Christopher Rolleston. It really was quite an achievement for Levi who was barely twenty-one when his family left; he worked for six years under a Mr. Martindale who then retired and Mr. Rolleston very wisely chose him to take over the great responsibility. That was only three months before his master passed, sadly, but the new estate owner decided to keep him on.”

“Did you know this Mr. Rolleston at all?” Sherlock asked. “Or his new employer?”

She shook her head.

“Levi rarely wrote”, she said, “but he seemed happy enough when he did so I thought that everything was all right. But then....”

She juddered to a halt. Sherlock offered her a glass of sherry and it seemed to give her strength.

“My dear Albert died late last year”, she went on, “which is why I am moving into my sister's house. Jim – my sister's husband – is quite happy with this; it is a big house and I can easily pay my way, especially as I was able to sell my old house at a premium because of its excellent location in the town. As I was leaving Northumberland and not likely to return, I decided to call on Levi before I left. I... I did not let him know that I was coming.”

She had gone so red that I was tempted to reach for my medical bag. And praying that I would not need it as moving across the room to treat her would have been utter agony!

“Levi has a small cottage some miles to the south-east of where I lived”, she stuttered and I braced myself for whatever terrible revelation was to come. “There was no sign of him so I walked around the back wondering if he was there. He is fond of gardening and, I am afraid, can get quite lost in his own head when he is amongst his precious plants. Then I heard singing – I suppose Levi would call it singing; he is practically tone-deaf the dear boy – and I realized that he was down by the stream which runs along the back of the place. I followed the path there and I saw.... I saw.....”

She ground to a halt. Lord above, what had she seen that was making her still tremble some three hundred miles later?

“You saw what?” Sherlock prompted. She took another deep breath.

“He was bathing in the river!” she shuddered.

Oh. She saw her nephew naked. Oops.

“Not that!” she snapped quickly. “No sirs, it was like this. Levi had his back to me and right across..... the area below the waist there were several welts and marks. Someone had beaten the poor boy! It was horrible!”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked.

“I turned and fled back to the front, then knocked very loudly and called his name”, she said. “I gave him some time before I started around the side of the house but he got to the door before I was far yet he was wearing a dressing-gown. I thought that very strange.”

“Possibly better than no dressing-gown?” I suggested. They both glared at me.

“What I _meant_ ”, Mrs. Sutherland said, looking at me Most Disapprovingly, “is that it was a very high-quality dressing-gown. Silken, I am sure. Levi did once say that he was paid well but I do not think that he could have afforded something like that.”

“Possibly it was a gift”, Sherlock suggested. “Here.”

He quickly poured her another sherry most of which she downed in one impressively quick shot. I began to wonder if she would make it to her sister's house this evening, or even the Baker Street kerb for that matter!

“This has been a great shock to you”, Sherlock said gently, “and you did the right thing in coming to us. We are inclined to investigate this case for you as a matter of urgency, and if you leave us your address in Dartford we shall communicate any findings to you as soon as we have them. One more question if you please. You mentioned that your brother has a new master, after the passing of Mr. Rolleston. Do you happen to know his name?”

“I do, sirs”, she said digging a card out of her reticule. “A rather unusual one so I wrote it down for you. He lived in London before he inherited; a shock it must have been to him as Levi said that he barely knew Mr. Rolleston. His name is Mr. Fairdale Hobbs.”

Fortunately she was not looking at me as she spoke (all right, she _was_ simpering at Sherlock again!) and the blue-eyed genius was a master of controlling his own expressions so she did not realize that her brother's new master was in fact a former resident of this very house. 

Another simper and she was gone, Sherlock grinning at my exasperation. I would have swatted at him but I still did not want to move unless absolutely necessary.

“A nice, _long_ train ride”, he beamed. “I do hope that I can find a way to keep myself _entertained.”_

All right, I whimpered. But it was a manly whimper.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our progress to my home county was delayed slightly the following day as Sherlock had a small matter in York to sort out for the town council, which was so trivial that he solved it between our mid-afternoon arrival and tea. We spent that night in the town which enabled me to take in the truly magnificent cathedral. Of course it showed my own frankly pathetic detective skills that it was only the next day that I realized my friend had taken the case just to that end, which he admitted when challenged. That was the wonderful thing about him; every day we were together I found that impossibly I could indeed love him even more.

I may or may not have shown my thanks by giving him a very enthusiastic blow-job at our hotel that night, which he may or may not have enjoyed mightily. I felt that that was not bad for someone who was, as Mrs. Rockland had remarked recently, ‘forty-eleven’!

The following day we made for Newcastle where we changed to a slow cross-country train which eventually drew into Hexham Station. From there it was an even slower branch-line train, eventually alighting in what seemed like the middle of nowhere but which proclaimed itself 'Staward'. I observed that the station seemed unusually large for such a seemingly empty locality.

“The railway runs down the East Allen valley from here”, Sherlock explained, “and this is the railhead for the villages along the West Allen. The porter at Hexham said that they had planned to make this the junction for a line down that valley possibly even as far as Alston, but that the plans came to naught.”

We left the station and crossed the road to the unimaginatively-named 'Roadside', the home of our former co-tenant Mr. Hobbs. At least even my limited detective skills could successfully find it as the station house apart there was not another dwelling within sight except for the cottage behind it (presumably that was Mr. Levi North's where the fellow's aunt had seen rather more than she had bargained for!) and a distant farmhouse to the east. We knocked at the door and after only a short time it opened to reveal.....

_Ye Gods!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

My relationship with Sherlock meant that I had seen probably more sights than an English country doctor of my still definitely middle years should have done, and I had long thought that there were few things left that could have truly surprised me. But the Thing that came through that door and then actually stood up before us.... well. Gulp! This man had to be nearly seven foot tall, and not the willowy build that one so often gets with tall people. No this was solid muscle filling the entire doorway, as if the Good Lord had decided to experiment with what happened when you added twenty per cent extra mass, all muscle, to your average human male, then threw in a bit extra just to make sure. I thought at once of our friend Mr. Vulcan Wild back in Hammersmith, but this giant had strawberry-blond hair and wore both a kilt and a friendly expression. Or perhaps I was just hoping desperately that it was friendly. And had been fed recently!

I was silently glad that I was standing behind Sherlock, coward that I was. My friend gave me a look that said he knew quite well what I was feeling, and presented his card to the giant.

“Sirs?” it rumbled, its head tilting slightly as it gazed down at us. I wondered what the weather was like up there.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson”, Sherlock said, doing his annoying not-smirk again. “Mr. Fairdale Hobbs was until recently a tenant at the house we lodge at in Baker Street in London. Is it possible to speak briefly with him?”

The Thing looked at us warily as if considering where it might be the least amount of hassle to bury our bodies. Then it nodded slowly.

“I believe that the master may be in”, it rumbled. “If you gentlemen would be so kind as to wait a moment, I shall see if he can receive you.”

It turned and led the way to a small but tidy waiting room, taking our coats and placing them on a coat-rack in a small cloakroom next door. As I was watching him I caught sight of a huge leather collar, which had to at least have been for a Great Dane. Or possibly a small horse. I gulped. It looked like Mr. Hobbs chose his pets from the same giant-size shop he got his servants from.

“Calm down, John.”

The fact he said those words in my ear having slid silently across the room, made me not jump a clear foot into the air nor emit anything that could have remotely been described as a girly shriek, whatever anyone with blue eyes later said. Once my heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of my chest I turned and glared at the bastard.

“Calm down?” I echoed. “With something as huge as _that?_ If Mr. Hobbs takes exception to our visit his henchman could probably bury our bodies without breaking a sweat!”

“I rather doubt that”, Sherlock smiled easily. “Especially as he is the subject of our visit.”

“What?”

“You did not notice that he has the same shaped nose as Mrs. Sutherland?” Sherlock said. “That is her nephew Levi, of whom she is so concerned.”

 _Levi as in Leviathan_ , I thought. _The Thing's parents had certainly had foresight!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Fairdale Hobbs was much as I remembered him from the few times we had met going in and out of Baker Street; indeed if anything he seemed even smaller. That however was probably due to the man-mountain that remained next to him, looking at us suspiciously (and, I could not help but think, hungrily). I looked around for the dog but did not see it although ominously there was a dog-basket in the corner that was so huge, I could easily have fitted in it myself.

Sherlock would protect me. I was sure of that. Fairly sure.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Hobbs asked politely. He could not have lived in 221B for any length of time without being fully aware of exactly what sort of relationship Sherlock and I had, although we had hardly ever spoken. I noted that he made no move to dismiss the thing next to him which seemed to be looking even hungr.... and my imagination could stop right there!

Sherlock seemed to think for a moment, then smiled.

“Actually the doctor and I happened to have a case in Hexham”, he lied, “and I remembered that you lived but a few miles away. As we had some spare time I thought we would pay a quick call to see how you were settling in, and then catch the next train back.”

Mr. Hobbs looked at him suspiciously. The Thing moved closer to him and was looking as if..... help!

“What was this case, may I ask?” Mr. Hobbs inquired. Sherlock looked shocked.

“I am sure that you remember me well enough that you would not expect me to betray client confidentiality, sir”, he said. “Save to say that it was in the town and was easily dealt with, which is why I now plan to spend a couple of days sightseeing with the doctor. Take in Hadrian's Wall and all the tourist sights, which he enjoys.”

Our host was clearly still suspicious as was I by now, but Sherlock did not seem inclined to linger. Indeed this seemed about to become one of our shortest cases ever. He rose quickly to his feet.

“We do not wish to dog your footsteps any longer”, he said with a smile. “I have had enough with following leads of late, and collaring criminals all over the place. Some fresh Bernician air will surely whip some colour into the good doctor's cheeks. We are pleased to see you settled in so well, lord of all. We shall see ourselves out.”

And with that he strode quickly from the room. I hurried after him keeping an eye out for the dog but I made it safely to the door, only falling over my feet the once.

Twice.

All right, three times! Damnation, leave a fellow some pride!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I do not get it”, I said plaintively. We were in a small hotel in the unimaginatively if accurately named hamlet of Wall, and while I looked forward to walking amongst the Roman ruins the following day I still could make neither head nor tail of my friend's actions back in Staward.

The great man chuckled and heaved himself on top of me in the bed, eliciting a warning creak from the giant structure into which even Levi could have (possibly) fitted. Sherlock was clearly in a mood for slow and lazy sex tonight, which was great as I was still exhausted from the past few days. It felt so good to have him gently tweaking my nipples, rousing me with an almost casual slowness towards a Very Happy Place that I was in no great hurry to reach. Getting there was after all half the fun.

“I would draw your attention to a number of things in this 'case'”, he said. “If you piece them all together the solution is fairly obvious. A little unusual perhaps and I doubt that you will be able to publish this case any time soon, but still obvious.”

“What things?” I sighed. “Ohhhhh!”

Sherlock was gently rubbing our erect cocks together, not enough to get me any nearer that orgasm but enough to make my whole body tingle. That was just unfair. And so damn good!

“First, the welts and marks which we know are on Levi's back”, he said, continuing his tort..... ministrations. “Second, the very large dog-collar. Third, the equally impressive dog-basket. And fourth, the fact that a man-mountain that size chooses to remain in service with someone who he could quite certainly dispatch without breaking a sweat and who pays sufficiently for him to afford the very highest quality silken clothes and dressing-gowns. The shirt that Levi was wearing had to be specially made by a shop in Edinburgh; I saw the label and I am sure they do not normally stock Superhuman size. Let alone the fact that the kilt was also of a much softer material than is the norm.”

“I still do not get it”, I complained. He stopped rubbing himself against me and quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Perhaps I should just hold off until you do?” he suggested playfully.

“No!” I said, my voice far too loud in the empty room. “Hell no, I can get it; just give me time. Does the dog have anything to do with it?”

He gave my now tender cock one more rub before answering.

“Tell me, John”, he said quietly, “did you notice any dog hair on the furniture?”

I thought back.

“No”, I said, “but then I was not looking for it. Besides, some dogs do not shed.”

“Very few”, Sherlock said. “I will give you a clue that should be enough to show you the light. Mr. Fairdale Hobbs does not own a dog.”

I frowned, now totally confused.

“But why then would he have a collar?” I asked. “I mean, that thing was big enough to fit a......”

My whole body froze. Suddenly I had got it. Sherlock grinned from above me.

“We have a winner!” he teased.

“Mr. Hobbs and _Levi?”_ I gasped. 

“Some big men like to be dominated by their smaller partners”, he said airily. “You know the sort; the stronger or more powerful they are, the more release there is in allowing someone else to take complete charge of them. I would have thought that being my man would have shown _you_ that, John.”

My mind whirled.

“The dog-basket?” I asked.

“For Levi when he misbehaves”, he grinned. “I quite like the idea.”

I prodded him for that and he retaliated by suddenly stepping up his rubbing, tweaking my nipples at the same time. I groaned. 

“They are both consenting adults”, he said as he slowly worked on me, “and the fact that Mr. Hobbs is prepared to buy the very best quality clothes so that his steward does not have to suffer after a beating shows how much he loves him. I am sure that like us they have limits beyond which our former neighbour will not go if his 'pet' says the word.”

“But Mr. Hobbs!” I said plaintively. “I mean Levi makes at least two of him. Three, even!”

I had been so distracted what with one thing and another than I had not even noticed Sherlock fingering me slowly open – until he suddenly pushed into me and my eyes rolled back as I came at once, letting out a strangled moan. He followed me soon after then collapsed lazily on top of me, still inside me. The events of the day had exhausted me and I slipped easily into sleep.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock must have woken up soon after and cleaned me up for I was spotless when I woke the following morning. I thought of the odd couple living life their own particular way only a few miles west of here and smiled to myself. Provided it was with a consenting adult and did not frighten the horses, what harm was there really?

Sherlock and I spent two more days in the area, catching the early train on the third day to Newcastle and thence to London. There we found a telegram from Mr. Hobbs waiting for us with the simple message, 'Thank You'. Sherlock took the opportunity to write to Mrs. Sutherland stating that the reason her brother had been bathing was to try to wash off a new cream which had caused an unfortunate reaction on his skin for some reason, and that as his 'master' (in every sense!) had encouraged him to apply it he had therefore felt morally obligated to provide a silk dressing-gown and some quality clothes to help alleviate any suffering.

Sixteen months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: I mentioned at the start of this story that Mr. Hobbs and his Leviathan had emigrated to the wilds of western Canada. Someone up there must have approved of Mr. Hobbs's choices in life because they very nearly did not make it. Nine years after the events described here was when they quitted these shores – and I leave it to my more mathematically-inclined readers to work out just what happened (or rather, did not happen) to them at that time.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	14. Case 345: The Adventure Of The Sleeping Beauty ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Sherlock and John return to beautiful east Cornwall where all is not well with the famous Portuguese duellist Isadora Persano whom they helped a few years back. Why does his lover Carantok Poldark keep falling asleep at the strangest of times, and are the shadows of the past set to ruin a happy present?   
> Not if Sherlock has anything to say about it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of past rape.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I had not thought that we would be heading back to east Cornwall some four years after we had solved the strange case of Mr. Simon Taylor's murder, or as the newspapers had preferred to concentrate on, the madness that had at the same time afflicted the famous duellist Mr. Isadora Persano. Those two events had turned out to be not unrelated in that the Portuguese had murdered Mr. Taylor (although both John and I agree that the term 'executed' was more applicable in this instance) and had resulted in the foreigner subsequently going to 'recover' on the Cornish farm of our hosts for the case, Clesek and Charlotte Trevithick. And more importantly that lady's stunningly beautiful brother Mr. Carantok Poldark who had been central to the case and who had written to us several times since reporting how happy he was with his Portuguese lover. We had only heard from them a couple of months back so the letter from Doctor Charles Frinton, who had assisted in the murder (!) had come as a shock. Hence on this early June day, the day after my brother Guilford's wedding to Miss Shepherd, we were heading west at great speed.

The fact that my mother had written a special story inspired by our familial event – 'Air On A G String' – was neither here nor there. And if the reader believes that, I have a bridge to sell them!

“Your medical colleague does not exactly go into detail about what his concerns are”, I frowned as I read the short missive. “Only that Mr. Poldark seems to be suffering from some strange malady that puts him to sleep at odd hours. Yet he seems to find that a matter of great concern.”

“He seems to fear that his replacement in the area, this fellow called Claude Jennet, is somehow involved”, John said. “I know that it took two years to find someone to serve such a rural area and that at least two of the men that he had hopes for fell through. He does not trust the fellow at all, I know that, and bad doctors like bad policemen are in a position to do a great deal of harm with little risk of their being detected.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“How can you know that?” I asked. He smiled.

“He calls him 'novel' in his approach”, he said. “That is doctor-speak for 'I would not trust this fellow to do anything medical for me or mine'.”

That made sense. He had once shown me some of the things that he and his fellow doctors put on patients' notes; I now knew that N.F.M. was not some strange foreign malady but 'Normal For Mayfair'. D.F.A.M. was 'Desperate For Any Man' while L.O.N.T. meant 'Lights On, No-one There'. Although I somehow doubted he would have much use for the initialism that represented 'Really Annoying Nuisance, Destroy All Lounge-Lizards'!

“What else has changed since we were last down there?” I asked. “He does not mention anything in his letter, I note.”

“I only know that Mr. Pompey Linnaker – you remember, the one that everyone called Pompous – broke off his engagement to Miss Clara Taylor”, he said. “That caused quit a stir in the newspapers; I do not think that she is seeing anyone else but he is now engaged to her cousin, an American lady staying in the area called Miss Messene Taylor. Her brother Clark inherited the title and now lives at Hingston Hall with her; he still has to pay both Miss Sally and Miss Clara their allowances although I suppose that both have presumably moved away somewhere.”

“It is a good thing that you never look at those social pages”, I teased, “otherwise you would never know such things.”

And there was the Pout, with us not even out of the London suburbs. I grinned and wedged our compartment door shut. For someone it was going to be a very rough ride down to distant Cornubia!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were back at Tavistock Station once more, and John whimpered most satisfactorily as I helped him out of our compartment.

“I shall not be able to risk opening my bag any time down here with what you slipped in there!” he grumbled. “Seriously, how did you have the time back in Baker Street?”

“Love gave me wings!” I grinned, as I helped his shattered form to a nearby bench that he looked briefly grateful for before sitting down rather too quickly and letting out a strangled yelp. “I would say that things could be worse, but for you I rather fear that they are about to me.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, yawning.

I gestured along the platform to where a familiar figure was approaching us. The unmistakeable form of Mr. Isadora Persano, his olive skin almost gleaming in the midday sun.

“Our friend is ready to take us all the way to Harrowbarrow!” I grinned. “Seven miles along a very bumpy road. Ready?”

He looked at me in horror!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Portuguese was clearly a man under strain although he managed a smile when a disgruntled John managed to clamber into the back of the cart he had brought (with only one or four manly expressions of surprise), wrap himself in an old blanket and fall asleep in seconds. There may have been some very slight muttering about sex-maniac blue-eyed consulting detectives as he slept, but fortunately I did not hear them.

“Thank you for coming, sir”, Mr. Persano said, and I noted that even in the few years since arriving in this county he had begun to acquire a Cornish accent. “Charles said that he would write to you, and I was so desperate.”

“Doctor Frinton did not say what it was that concerned him”, I said, “and if it was that urgent why did he not send a telegram?”

“Meg in the post-office would have alerted the whole county by sunset if he had!” the Portuguese scoffed. “All we have are suspicions, I am afraid. But I love my Cary enough to know that something is very wrong, despite what he says.”

He took a ragged breath. Despite his being dressed very much like a Cornish farmer he was still clearly not of this area, although I could see that his tan had started to fade and that his once perfectly manicured hands were now rough from work. Much more serious however was his change of demeanour; he may have been feigning madness when I had last seen him but he was now bitterly unhappy.

“It started about two months ago”, he said as we moved slowly along a country lane. “It was nothing much to start with; Cary fell asleep one day and napped for half an hour while he was sat in the garden. He had never slept in the day before so I thought it odd but did not worry about it, at least at first. But since then his sleeps have been becoming longer; the one yesterday was full two hours. He just says that he feels tired but I know, I _know_ that something is wrong with my boy!”

I refrained from pointing out that Mr. Carantok Poldark was barely three years younger than his lover sat beside me.

“Some questions before we meet Doctor Frinton, then”, I said. “Was there any other event, no matter how seemingly unimportant, that happened when these sleeps started?”

He frowned at that.

“That was when Mr. Clark Taylor, the late Mr. Taylor's cousin, got here from America”, he said. “But he is one of the most upright and honourable men out, sir, and I know all about honour.”

“John said that this fellow has a sister”, I said. “What is she like?”

He scowled.

“She was in Plymouth just after I... when old Mr. Taylor met his end”, he said, narrowly saving himself from an awkward turn in our conversation. “Invited herself to the hall before the funeral would you believe and has been there since, has Miss Messene. I think that she gets an allowance from the estate although Miss Clara and Miss Sally get to keep theirs for life. They both moved out because of her, almost at once.”

I knew from long experience that 'for life' often meant 'until someone wants you out of the way', but did not say as much. It seemed that the new Taylors' arrival was not the trigger I was looking for.

“I hate asking this sort of question”, I said, “but do you know what happens to the estate once Mr. Clark Taylor passes?”

He nodded.

“With a mouth like Miss Messene's around, who does not?” he said. “Mr. Clark is the last of the male Taylors; the line is exhausted after him although I understand that he has someone back in the States who he is engaged to. If he dies before having a son then Miss Messene, Miss Clara and Miss Sally get a third each. I suppose he could always will it to someone else though; I know I would.”

 _Motive_ , I thought.

“This Mr. Clark has settled in well?” I asked.

That seemingly simple question seemed to fox him for some reason.

“I do not know why, but he had a major clear-out of servants when he got here, sir”, he said. “Perhaps he wanted a change, but over half of them left and most were not happy about it. Charles said that was odd too, considering how hard it is to get staff these days let alone out here.”

“We must look into each and every one of them”, I sighed. “How are you doing on the farm?”

He smiled at that.

“His Majesty† wrote to me from Lisbon the other day asking if I wanted to come home”, he said. “It made me laugh for the first time in days; I have never been more 'home' in my life! I never knew how useless and empty my life was until I met Cary. I know that people laugh at a wastrel like me learning to milk cows and fleece sheep, but I do it all with my Cary and I have never been happier. Yet I fear.... something, and I know not what.”

We rode on in silence, lost in our own thoughts and interrupted only by a gentle snoring from just behind us.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Doctor Frinton was not able to add much to the excellent testimony of our Iberian friend, at least at first. 

“I only wish that I could rely on my replacement, Jennet”, he said. “But he has turned out to be a great disappointment. Quite a few people in the area are going all the way to Callington to get treated rather than rely on him, and Doctor Kenyon there is not that welcoming a figure.”

“Does this new doctor treat Mr. Poldark?” John asked, yawning.

Doctor Frinton was good; that was definitely a not-smirk at my love's terrible state.

“No, I treat my godson”, he said. “He has not needed anything from me as of late.”

I stared at him curiously. Something in his words did not quite ring true.

“When _was_ the last time that you treated him?” I asked curiously.

I could see that all three of them were surprised at my question, but the doctor answered it anyway.

“I gave him more of that unguent that you detected”, he said, looking ruefully at the Portuguese. “Sorry Isa, but you know how uncertain he is about his appearance, and after he ran into those drunken roughs last March he got all worried again.”

“You did not mention that”, I said to Mr. Persano.

“They were not from round these parts”, he growled. “If they had been, they would have joined Mr. Simon Taylor in Hell!”

I thought hard. I was beginning to see _how_ this had been done but not _why_ , and that was clearly key.

“You said that you and Mr. Poldark work together most of the time”, I said to Mr. Persano. “Do you still have that cottage out behind his sister's farm?”

“We do”, he smiled. “It is not much but it has a Cary, and I could never want for more.”

Despite his smile I had an increasingly bad feeling about this case. It had to be solved – and quickly!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After some thought I dispatched a note to Mr. Clark Taylor asking if I might see him. The answer that came back was not good; yes – but alone.

“I do not like it”, John said at once when I told him. “What if he is another maniac who could try to take you from me?”

“Mr. Persano assures me that he is not”, I said, “and luckily there is something that I wish you to do while I am up there. It involves Mr. Poldark.”

He still did not like it, but he accepted in the end. I 'persuaded' him.

_Twice!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Clark Taylor bore absolutely no resemblance to the pictures that I had seen of his late cousin, even if being dead does not necessarily leave one looking one's best. The new lord of Hingston Hall was in is late twenties, dark-haired, of average height and fairly nondescript all round. But he had the same nobility of character that my cousin Lord Harry Hawke had, and it shone through him like a lighthouse beam through a piece of gauze.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes”, my host said. “In my country we believe in plain speaking, which is why much as I admire the good doctor's writings, I wished for us to talk alone.”

“I am fine with plain speaking”, I said.

“I know that my cousin was a rapist.”

I baulked. _That_ was plain speaking! He seemed unperturbed by what he had just said.

“I got it out of his valet Jeb who I inherited when I got here two months ago”, he said. “He knew from the villain's clothes; please God let us not talk about how. It turned out over half the staff had known yet had said nothing; I sacked each and every one that did.”

“I see”, I said. He looked at me shrewdly.

“I also know how he died”, I said. “A pretty mystery, but I am sure that the recently retired Doctor Frinton and that dashing young Iberian did a lot more than come round for dinner. I only hope that they made the bastard suffer for what he did!”

I took a deep breath. This meeting was not turning out as I had expected, not by any stretch of the imagination.

“I have some funds from my mother, sir”, my host said, “and they are more than enough for my means. I inherited this place through a foul and unspeakable act, and every day that I am here I see that.”

I stared at him. At last I was beginning to see the light.

“You have made arrangements”, I hazarded. He nodded.

“Dirty money, that is what it feels like after my cousin did”, he said. “Apart from those allowances I am selling the rest of the estate and am going to give the money to Mr. Poldark. He can live here or do what he wants with it; that is up to him.”

I thought fast.

I am very much afraid”, I said, “that your good intentions may have come close to proving fatal.”

He looked at me in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some time later I returned to the Trevithicks' farm where we were staying, and it was another couple of hours before John and Mr. Carantok Poldark joined us. The latter greeted me briefly but was eager to depart to spend time alone with his Iberian lover, even if he had little to tell him from a seemingly uneventful trip to the hospital.

Seemingly. John sighed as he joined me in our room.

“Damnably cunning!” he said. “And surely impossible to prove?”

“Few things in this world are impossible”, I smiled. “Tomorrow we will take advantage of country matters and spread some rumours, then see what fish we can catch as a result!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We had a quiet night together. This was after all the same house where Mr. Simon Taylor had made his last, unforgivable error in taking poor Mr. Poldark against his will. Tomorrow with any luck, a further and hopefully final chapter would be written in that unhappy saga.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After a quiet and uneventful day we turned in early so we could grab at least some sleep. The small hours of the following morning found the two of us crouching in the back of Mr. Poldark's and Mr. Persano's cottage, which was indeed a small place. But one whose three rooms were I had noted filled with love, the sort of happy atmosphere that I too hoped to start creating less than a year and a half from now.

It was pitch-black outside but there was a cloudless sky and a nearly full moon, so when the door to the main room was very carefully pushed open a beam of light shone in. Two figures entered stealthily, one clearly holding some sort of shuttered lamp which she – it was definitely a she – lit. They shone it carefully around the room and the lamp-holder gave a startled gasp when she saw her target right there on the mantle-piece. The two crossed to the fire and she reached forward to take it....

The door was suddenly flung open and the solid form of Constable Penruth filled it, his policeman's helmet clearly outlined against the moonlight. The two thieves panicked and bolted to the other door, but John stepped forward with his gun poised read to fire. Mr. Persano turned on the light and we could see the thieves' faces at last. 

It was Miss Messene Taylor and Lord Pompey Linnaker.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I know what you did.”

There was always that moment of pleasure when justice was finally served, but it was made even sweeter by the sheer fury on the faces of the villains handcuffed together in Mr. Poldark's main room. They both glowered at me but said nothing.

“A telegram that I sent to London confirmed that Miss Taylor here had learned of her brother's intention to will away his estate to Mr. Poldark here”, I said (I had broken that bombshell to the young man in question earlier but doubtless he was still in shock, although he was now safe in his lover's strong arms). “Her brother knew her too well for her to try anything against him, but she could get at her rival for the money that she felt was rightfully hers. Because she wanted it.”

“She and her fiancée found a willing accomplice – for a price, of course – in the new doctor Mr. Jennet, who told them of Mr. Poldark's past treatments from the records that he inherited. Realizing that he used a certain product to cover bruising, these villains arranged for two thugs to beat the poor man up so he would once again need that unguent, for which he naturally went to his godfather. However Mr. Jennet was able to make up a seemingly identical jar – except his was adulterated so that the recipient would start sleeping at odd hours. The ultimate plan was for Mr. Poldark to have an 'accident' as a result of this.”

“Let me get at them!” Mr. Persano snarled, despite having his arms full of Cornishman. They both tried to move away from him, which was rather difficult as they were tied together.

“The key element of the crime was of course that the jars had to be swapped”, I said, “which was easy as the cottage is unlocked. However, today alarming news reached these villains that suspicions had been aroused over the unguent, and that an expert was arriving within the next twenty-four hours to test it. I must tell you, most pleasurably, that that was a lie. The tests were done yesterday, and they also revealed a partial fingerprint on the jar that was not Mr. Poldark's”

“Now I know that you are lying!” Lord Linnaker scoffed, “because I wore glo.....”

His voice tailed off. I allowed myself a smirk at his stupidity and his accomplice glared at him.

“Because we are exceedingly generous”, I said, “we are extending the same offer to you as is currently being delivered to Doctor Jennet. Twenty-four hours head start.”

“Till what?” Miss Taylor sneered.

“Until I set Mr. Persano after you!” I said. “Constable, uncuff these 'personages'. They will not be a problem for much longer – _either way!”_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

They were not. All three villains had the good sense to flee the country that same day and to never come back (I had Miss St. Leger track them just to make sure). Mr. Clark Taylor did sell his estate and pass the proceeds to Mr. Poldark, who gave most of it to charity except for some generous gifts to his friends. He also split the vanished Miss Taylor's allowance between Miss Clara and Miss Sally, then returned to his cottage and his peaceful existence with his Portuguese lover.

Well, peaceful except when certain special deliveries arrived from a certain shop in Baker Street, which Clesek Trevithick claimed always coincided with his cows going off giving milk as their milking-shed lay next to the cottage. Funny, that.

Fifteen months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† King Charles would be assassinated just five years later along with his eldest son Luis. His son would succeed him as King Manuel the Second but after a brief reign would be overthrown in a revolution in 1910, ending the Portuguese Monarchy._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	15. Case 346: The Adventure Of Faerie Dell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1903\. Several truths are revealed, someone finds the perfect partner and Sherlock has another narrow escape – or does he?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This was one of a small number of adventures in which someone other than what I have heard described as 'the Sherlockians' – Sir Peter Greenwood, Miss St. Leger, our many policemen friends, the Malones and Rocklands, _et cetera, et cetera_ – came back into our lives. After all the false alarms in a whole number of cases it showed that perhaps the supernatural does indeed exist and that it need not always be feared. The truth, they say, is out there somewhere. 

Ye Gods, Sherlock has just walked across the room naked. The truth is not the only thing 'out there!' Excuse me......

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We had not seen Miss St. Leger since her move to Northamptonshire and Sherlock’s solving of the Red Circle case about a year and a half back, so it was with pleasure that I heard Mrs. Rockland announce her name one fine July morning. She all but threw herself at Sherlock and even though I knew there was nothing between them I instinctively growled. She smirked knowingly at me but mercifully said nothing, for which I was grateful.

“All right, I _am_ on the scrounge again”, she said collapsing into the fireside chair in an untidy heap. “Running Swordland's from the middle of nowhere is a lot harder than I had hoped and some people seem to view it as some sort of free information agency, as if they could press a button and get whatever they want to know without paying for it! A pity that I cannot have some sort of telephone system where people can just pull a lever, pay me somehow or other and then get what they want.”

“Technology does tend to raise expectations”, Sherlock said with a smile. “How may we be of service today, madam?”

She reached for a jam cream finger (honestly she almost matched our friends Gregson and LeStrade in their freakish abilities to detect baked goods at 221B; the cuddling coppers had somehow timed their last visit from the Lakes to Mrs. Rockland's baking day last week!), and proceeded to get cream all down the front of her dress. I sighed; she was almost as much of a grub as the blue-eyed genius sat opposite me! Wiping it off, she grinned and began.

“Half the battle with Swordland's is not so much getting the information”, she said, “but sorting out the grains of wheat from the bushels of chaff. We get so many reports in from so many people, I am seriously thinking of having an extension built just to house all the paperwork! Luckily my staff are great and I always pay them a bonus if they spot anything out of the ordinary.”

“It may be something and nothing but I recently had cause to get some facts for a fellow living in a place called Aldeburgh, on the Suffolk coast. I did not need to go there myself but one of my agents had to so as to get the facts on a certain gentleman whose activities were immoral if not illegal. I tell you, I shall certainly never look at horse-brasses the same away again!”

She stopped. Sherlock had gone suddenly pale. I winced too; I knew quite well that he was thinking of.....

“Another of your mother's stories?” our visitor guessed.

My friend downed a large whisky and nodded. Some relatives had a lot to answer for – especially those who wrote horrors like 'Brassed Off' – but I supposed at least they were useful in keeping certain lounge-lizards in line, as he would have to read that multiple times to translate it into several different languages.

Karma got it right some times!

“It was all sorted out”, she went on, “and while he was there my fellow picked up a lot of other local gossip as well. Most of it was what you would expect but one thing struck me as odd, and I do not like odd.”

“Go on”, Sherlock said still looking a little wan.

“One of the villagers was worried that last year a local girl had gone off to join some sort of commune at Dunwich, a few miles up the coast”, she said. “My fellow's description of the area was so positive I have been looking at moving to the area myself; ever since they went and built that new army base at Redford my little slice of Midlands peace and quiet is damn noisy! Plus they are going to close Carlington and open a new railway-station next to the camp, which will only make things worse!”

“You do not wish to investigate this matter yourself?” I asked curiously. Our visitor shook her head.

“I just gather information and sell it”, she said. “I leave the investigating to geniuses – genii? – like Blue-Eyes here. But I am due to go up there at the end of next week to finish the Aldeburgh case off so if it is not all sorted by then you can tell me how things are going.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“This Faerie Dell place has been going for quite some time”, I told Sherlock the following day. I had gone to the library to do some research on the place for him as he had sprained his ankle for reasons that….. well I am not going into all the details save to say it involved a certain piece of equipment left on the floor by a momentarily untidy doctor (look, I had had other things on what was left of my mind at the time!) and that a certain consulting detective had not spotted, had stepped on and had fallen over. It had quite put a damper on our morning’s activities although bandaging up a patient’s leg had never been quite so much fun and certainly had never taken quite so very long. 

Those blue eyes smouldered at me and I made sure to keep the table between me and my mercifully incapacitated patient. 

“Down, boy!” I ordered. “You need complete rest for at least forty-eight hours.”

“I do not mind being on my back”, he smirked, “provided I can have you on top of me.”

I waved an admonitory finger at him. 

“Not while you are recovering”, I told him playfully. “Though perhaps once you are fully recovered, _then_ we might play doctor and patient again.”

His eyes twinkled but he subsided, so I went and sat opposite him.

“The place was one of those so-called 'Century Cults'”, I went on. “There were a whole lot of them about three years back, a bit like that terrible Millennium Falcon thing I suppose; all convinced that the end of the nineteenth century was to be the end of the world. Which with the mess the world is in right now was I suppose understandable. Almost makes me glad I am going to miss the same thing when years start beginning with a two; that will be so many times worse! Most of them disappeared when 1901 turned up bang on time but Faerie Dell did not. It is only a small thing but it is still going.”

“The library had information on it then?” he asked. “One would have thought that a small quasi-religious grouping in rural East Suffolk would not interest them much.”

“The local girl who went there was a daughter of one of the principal families in the area”, I said, “so it made the London newspapers. Miss Felicity Wyndham-Connaught; her father is Lord Harringay who sits in the House of Lords and speaks out a lot there. He is known as Old Windy because his speeches do go on; at least I hope that that is the reason! There was a huge fuss when the daughter slipped away from home without telling the parents; they went to the courts to get her back. Very unwillingly it was said; they shuttled her off to the Continent to keep her from the clutches of the cult leader. Luxembourg or some such place I think; they had some family over there.”

“Who is the leader of this 'cult'?” he asked. 

“He is known to his followers as just 'the Sharer', which tells us precisely nothing!” I said. “According to various reports he comes from Russia, Tibet, the United States or possibly even Mars! Quite what he is doing on the Suffolk coast is a mystery. It cannot be the money for he apparently refuses all donations from his followers; it is hard to see how the place pays for itself especially if the nosy London newspapers cannot ferret it out. All the people who have gone there – mostly women but there have been a couple of men as well – have been questioned by the police; none showed any signs of being compelled to stay yet none expressed the slightest wish to leave. And unlike Miss Wyndham-Connaught they are all adults so they can hardly be dragged out.”

“Very strange”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “This 'Sharer' must be quite something.”

Neither of us had any idea at the time just how true that statement was.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Faerie Dell (honestly!) was an open establishment which meant that anyone could turn up unannounced. Indeed the problem with the Wyndham-Connaught girl had not so much been locating her as persuading her to leave; the social pages of the 'Times' (which I may have occasionally glanced at on the odd occasion if they just happened to be open at that page and a certain blue-eyed genius could stop sniggering _right this minute!_ ) stated that she had broken off all communication with her parents when they had sent her abroad, and only the efforts of her relations over there along with her becoming engaged to a distant cousin over there had served to effect a reconciliation. 

I myself was baffled by the whole thing. This 'Sharer' fellow did not seem to be gaining much from his commune and clearly no-one was being kept there against their will. Unless that was there was some means of cajoling the people there that had not been made clear as yet. Drugs perhaps, but the police had found nothing but contented people there and I was sure that they would have tested for such things.

Sherlock’s ankle had taken some time to recover and it was not until the middle of the following week that I judged him ready for travel. That was Wednesday which we mostly spent on other things (horizontal other things, but also vertical and even upside-down at one point!) so it was not until Thursday that we finally decamped to Liverpool Street Station for a Great Eastern Railway express to Ipswich, where coincidentally we had changed for Bury St. Germaine some three years back and our supernatural adventure with the ancient British barrow. I wondered idly if that was an omen as our train this time chuntered unhurriedly through some pleasant countryside until we alighted at Darsham, the nearest station to Dunwich.

I was sure that Sherlock knew it but I was quite looking forward to seeing Dunwich, or what remained of it at least. Like many people I knew that in the Middle Ages it had been a great port, as large as London by some accounts, but a run of terrible storms in the late thirteenth century had torn away huge parts of the place and its remaining citizens had not unnaturally lost confidence in it, drifting away to other, safer towns. A strange choice of place for anyone to choose to come to, let alone someone who had travelled from halfway round the world. Or possibly Mars!

We arrived at Faerie Dell and sent up our cards and a request to speak with this 'Sharer'. A reply came back almost immediately; he was currently engaged with someone but was delighted that we had called and definitely wished to talk with us. If we could but wait for but half an hour he would be down. 

I was more distracted with the young fellow who talked with us, who I thought looked like an escapee from a circus. He was in his late thirties and of slightly above the average height, but his musculature was absolutely phenomenal and I wondered how he maintained it living out here. He wore a set of impossibly tight shorts and looked a little like he was set to attend one of those historical re-enactment things that Miss St. Leger liked to do and which had inspired Sherlock to that handmaiden costume that someone who was not a detective had been prevailed upon to wear. Possibly more than once. 

_There was absolutely no need for someone to hold up four fingers just then!_

After what seemed like an interminable wait the muscle-man departed then almost immediately reappeared to announce our host. A tallish dark-haired man walked into the room and.... it was strange. He was of above-average height and there was something vaguely familiar about him from somewhere...

_“Sherrinford?”_

I stared first at my beloved, then at the figure before me. _This_ was Sherlock's twin brother?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Greetings Sherlock, John”, our host said affably. “I have been expecting you. I hope that your ankle is better, brother. It is good to see you both again, alive and well.”

A faint memory stirred in my mind. He smiled at me – there was as I said absolutely nothing of Sherlock in him, yet he was indubitably my love's twin – and nodded.

“We seem fated to meet at railway stations”, he observed. “Faversham, doctor?”

It came back to me at once.

 _“You_ were the guard who helped me!” I exclaimed. 

It was incredible in that he looked nothing like the guard either. I blinked but I was still in this universe, little though it was now making sense.

“You needed to be at that mine quite quickly”, he said. “I merely expedited the process.”

“But how did you know to be there?” I asked. 

“I have always known”, he said simply, “even if I have not known _how_ I know. It is like Pandora's Box but with a warning-system; one senses when not to push because the consequences might be less than pleasant, if not terminal. It is the same way that while I cannot prevent some disasters, I can go there and ameliorate the consequences; that was how my twin here first found me working in a small Renfrewshire fishing village where I was able to help them recover from the effects of a terrible storm that had claimed the lives of nearly all of their young men.”

I looked at him in confusion.

“He means that he knew from what day the local ladies would be most likely to have a happy event some nine months later”, Sherlock said with the beginnings of a smile, “and being a giving sort of person....”

His brother tutted at him.

“To answer the doctor’s next question”, our host said, “yes. I do sometimes bet on the horses. That is how this place pays for itself.”

I blushed. I had been thinking exactly that. Now I had two of them at it!

“One should _try_ not to alter history in any way, shape or form”, our host said, “but of course when one has a gift such as this one is always tempted. I was able to use it to a limited extent to monitor you, Sherlock, which was why I made sure that I was there at Faversham. And later in the same county, on another train this time at Tonbridge.”

I remembered the mysterious carriage door that had opened from an empty compartment and in so doing saved my love's life from that gunman. He nodded at me.

“Most critically at Brightlingsea Station”, he said. “I am sorry that you had to suffer as a result, doctor. But on the plus side I believe that that particular personage is currently not that far away from there. Or at least what the fishes have left of him.”

I sat there in stunned silence. Sherlock of course seemed quite calm.

“I must say, brother”, our host said, “that your life has been a series of spectacular ups and downs thus far – _especially yesterday!_ – and I am quite relieved to see that you appear to be heading for calmer waters.”

He had an almost hypnotic voice; either that or else I really wanted to believe him.

“Victor?” Sherlock asked, referring I knew to his brother's lover.

“Up another mountain in Scotland”, his brother smiled. “After he shunned my advice last time and got a broken ankle for his pains, he will take the easy route. He loves his hills and I love his returns when we make up for lost time.”

He looked pointedly at Sherlock, who blushed for some reason.

“What about Miss Wyndham-Connaught?” I asked. “Surely you failed there?”

He chuckled.

“On the contrary”, he said. “I succeeded, albeit that I had to use somewhat devious means. I knew that there was a son of a family friend who would prove an excellent match for her, but that they were unlikely ever to meet as the fellow's father had most inconsiderately moved to the Low Countries. However, when the wilful daughter runs away from home and fights all efforts to get her to return, well.... what else is a loving father to do but to move her as far away as possible from the source of all the trouble? Flick sent me a telegram only the other week and she is over the moon after her father accepted her choice of future husband. She and Franz will do well together provided they move to Switzerland as I advised them to.”

“So now you wished to see me”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Any particular reason, brother?”

His twin smiled.

“If I told you _everything_ then you might well become complacent”, he said cheerily. “No, Sherlock. You still have just over a year before you and your true love here can sail off into the sunset and enjoy the long and happy retirement that you have so richly earned. I do have something to tell you but I cannot reveal it for another twenty-four hours. If you can find a place to stay overnight then you should come back here tomorrow afternoon with your friend Miss St. Leger, and we can finalize what needs finalizing. Harry?”

The weirdly-dressed muscle-man crossed to the door. Clearly it was time for us to leave. Sherlock looked at his twin then smiled and left, with me close behind.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I still find that creepy”, I complained as we sat on the beach at Dunwich that evening. This was one of the things I liked to do when we were in the country, to go out and look at the star-filled skies, something that was becoming increasingly rare in a London that seemed to grow bigger and dirtier with each passing day. It was almost dark now and we had the beach to ourselves, a brief passing shower having driven everyone else off to the village. 

Sherlock yawned but said nothing.

“Can your twin really foresee the future?” I wondered gazing out onto a flat calm North Sea. 

Sherlock stood up and I heard rather than saw him clambering up onto the sandbank behind us, presumably to get a better view.

“If you had his power would you not do exactly as he has done?” he asked.

“What, bet on the horses?”

“John!”

“Sorry.”

“It must be both a blessing and a curse, in some ways”, he mused.

“How can knowing the winner of the 3.15 at Ascot at three o' clock be a curse?” I asked reasonably. “Except perhaps for the bookies!”

“Because if there is someone that you love you may not always be able to help them”, he said seriously. “Those times that he saw me suffering and he could do nothing about it; he could only help me by helping you. Surely he knew that after Brightlingsea that I would suffer as I watched you suffer.”

I nodded as I heard him descend the sandbank. Then he came around to stand in front of me and I stopped smiling very quickly. Somehow and without my hearing a thing, the horny bastard had got himself completely naked!

“Now”, he growled, “time for some more sex on the beach!”

I stared at him in shock. True it was dark and there was no-one about or likely to be about, but the sandy shore stretched on endlessly north and south and we would have no warning if anyone came into view. Or worse, through the gated gap forty yards further along in the sandbank.

He grinned at me and lowered himself in front of me, beginning to pluck at my clothes. I had never been one for exhibitionism but suddenly I was very aroused and more than keen to join the party. Especially when he stopped pawing at me and began to saunter casually towards the sea. 

Somehow I managed to get myself undressed and hurried after him. He was standing waist-deep in the waves and I thought instinctively of that painting with Venus rising from the foamy waves – except that my man was way more beautiful than any goddess of love. I ran into the sea to join him – then ran out again a whole lost faster biting my lip to avoid screaming at the cold. There may or may not have been one – _one!_ – very slight and somewhat high-pitched manly expression of surprise.

“Come on in, John”, he grinned. “The water's lovely!”

I scowled at him, gritted my teeth then made my second and rather more careful entrance to Neptune's bloody freezing kingdom. I half expected to see a few icebergs floating merrily by but I had forgotten what a human heater my man was, and as soon as I was plastered against that gorgeous body I quickly began to warm up. Indeed I was so intent on touching him at as many points as possible that I did not even notice where his hand was going until it wrapped around both our hardening cocks and began to jerk us both off. I instinctively leaned back in my ecstasy, which proved to be a mistake as my top half promptly froze and I hugged my love hard to regain the lost warmth. What with that and the cold trying to break in between us, my orgasm took me completely by surprise and I sagged against him when it was done, totally spent.

He proved how strong that slender frame was by all but carrying me onto the beach and laying me out, then folding himself on to of me before rolling us both over several times on the soft sands. I was covered by the time he was done and I groaned. That would mean another dip in the sea to clean myself off.....

That would mean another dip in the sea to clean myself off.....

I would have run back down the beach but my legs were annoyingly uncooperative. So I just lay there on top of him, smiling down at my beautiful, beautiful mate.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Miss St. Leger had come up by the first train of the day to Aldeburgh, completed her business there and then hired a cab to take her to Dunwich for just after lunch. She was clearly suspicious of Sherlock's twin and the three of us returned to Faerie Dell somewhat apprehensively.

Mr. Sherrinford Holmes wanted a private word with his twin first which I could understand, so Miss St. Leger and I sat in the waiting-room and... well, waited. The young fellow in his weird historical costume – Harry, I remembered – was rearranging folders on a shelf, an activity rendered arguably inadvisable as he was today wearing an incredibly short tunic instead of the shorts. Miss St. Leger seemed unusually quiet, although I noted that Harry's reaching for the higher shelves and her bending down to re-tie her shoe-laces always seemed to coincide for some reason. I was not of course so foolish as to remark on that as I quite valued my life, and I got a distraction when something in the newspaper caught my eye.

“Oh my Lord!” I burst out. 

She looked at me in surprise.

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Listen to this”, I said. “There was drama in Baker Street, London, last night when that thoroughfare was witness to a gunfight more more fitting for a Wild West boulevard. Only by the miraculous workings of Providence did the sole victim end up being the man who had caused it all, a Mr. Julian Hollis.”

“Who is he?” Miss St. Leger asked.

“Sherlock got him put away back in 1896 when he was part of the gang that robbed Godfrey's & Pickson's Bank”, I told her. “Two of them swung for killing the guards but his lawyer, a smarmy fellow called Cable, managed to persuade the judge that his client had been forced into it and he only got seven years. Mr. Hollis must have been after Sherlock!”

“Except that thanks to your second Sherlock, neither of you was there”, she pointed out, again reaching down to.... re-tie her shoe-laces. 

I nodded and read on. It had been the most amazing good fortune (although perhaps not for Mr. Hollis) that he had been stopped outside 221B by a group of policemen who had just raided a house nearby and had confiscated a whole set of loaded guns. Of course the London bobby was quite rightly not armed but in this case the criminal had been exceptionally – and fatally – unlucky. 

_Or had he?_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Soon after we were shown in to Mr. Sherrinford Holmes. He greeted us and bade us sit down.

“I see from the doctor's newspaper that you have read the news from London”, he said with an affable smile. 

I wondered how he had managed to have us here on exactly the right date, which would have meant that he knew what had caused Sherlock's leg injury, which meant..... no, not going there! 

Then I remembered. He had asked after that injury the day before. And he had smiled when he had mentioned recent 'ups and downs'. Damnation!

“I am not some producer of these 'films' monitoring every movement of your lives, doctor”, he smiled. “If I were, I might have filmed certain events on the nearby beach last night, and be inquiring into why there is sand in certain parts of your and my brother's anatomies in places where sand should not be. Miss St. Leger?”

I blushed even deeper. Miss St. Leger had seemed distracted again but snapped to attention.

“Yes?” she said. 

“Two things”, Mr. Sherrinford Holmes said. “First, I most strongly advise you to get the house that you looked at this morning _thoroughly_ checked over. The fact that the current owner is not only going abroad at short notice but is also asking nearly five per cent below the going market rate – I am sure that someone as talented as you are suspicious already. Although you might want to take a deep breath before you look behind the bookcase in the cupboard under the stairs. And perhaps take the added precaution of not having eaten anything heavy beforehand.”

She nodded.

“Second”, he continued, “East Suffolk really is a most pleasant area in which to settle, and the government is unlikely to want to build any army camps this close to a vulnerable coastline. Plus as I am sure you have already found, some of the..... views in this county are quite breathtaking.”

She blushed deeply.

“If you are to move here then perhaps I can ask one of my friends here to show you around a little”, our host said with a smile. “I am sure that Harry, who can be _most_ accommodating, could make himself available.”

Sherlock's twin turned to me.

“I have given my dear brother a list of certain things to come which he might care to try to avoid”, he said carefully. “Not so much for the two of you – you are almost home free as they say – but for those close to you. Family, we believe here, does not end in blood. However doctor, I will tell you one thing that may interest you.”

I leant forward. “Yes?” I asked.

“My brother has shown a remarkable flexibility when it comes to dealing with the difference between justice and the law”, he said. “Come to that he is remarkably flexible in other matters too, but let us not go there.”

Aliens in a passing spaceship could have seen my blush.

“Your retirement is guaranteed”, our host said, “and it will be long and prosperous. But it will not be without bumps along the way, and in the first ten years you will have your final seven adventures together. The last of these will be your greatest challenge yet – _and for you, doctor, it will be utterly mortifying!_

I stared at him in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Sherrinford Holmes would say no more and we were ushered out, somehow losing Miss St. Leger on the way (I suspected that Harry was involved in that). I was a little worried by the seer's words but Sherlock seemed truly happy at having met his twin again and I suppose that that was enough for me.

Fourteen months to go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


End file.
